








+ 




THE 

MUZZLED 

OX 



“Thou shalt not muzzle the ox 
when he treadeth out the com ” 

Deut., Chap. XXV, Vcf. 4 



ALEX ♦ FRANCIS 

BALTIMORE, MD. 

1923 


rSts/r 

./Pa Mt 

/f z. 3 


T/iis fcoofc is dedicated to my beloved mother who died in 1903, 
aged 88 years. While possessing a mind probably above the 
average, she, through no fault of hers, was compelled, without 
any scholastic training, at a tender age, to begin a half-century 
struggle with a mentally equipped, merciless world. The story 
of her life disproves the statement if you never trouble rum, 
rum will never trouble you. 


cj 

I wish to express my gratitude to Mr. George F. Nichols 
and his good wife, Mrs. Anna Nichols, who, while dissenting 
from many of the ideas advanced in this book, gave me much 
valuable assistance with the sympathetic grace that accompanies 
assent and who thereby exhibited true friendship. 


Copyright 1923, by Alex. Francis. 

OCT 19 1923 

©C1A759485 
<Vv* J 




nn <rsr | 


A STATEMENT. 


Some sections of this book should be read as curiosities. 
While containing much of intentional inaccuracy and extrava¬ 
ganza, they breathe not one word of insincerity. The author is 
not a poet either born or made; only a writer of verse. The 
instinct, the concept, the genius, the fire of poetry is wanting 
and never can be gained. There is as much difference between 
natural and artificial poetry as between natural and artificial 
^ flowers; all, however, may look beautiful. 

The following contributions in prose are a few of the many 
' <> n the various subjects that appeared from time to time in the 

Baltimore dailies. The captions were used by the Editors, and 
for their comments we accept no responsibility. 

Part I is used as a preface. Parts II-VI is a justifica¬ 
tion of the action of President Roosevelt in the matter of the 
acquisition of the “Panama Strip.” All nature, beginning with 
the highest and passing to the lowest, is represented as despond¬ 
ent because of the shameful dishonor heaped on the brave 
Colonel by succeeding Administrations of the United States of 
America. 

“John Barleycorn,” the greatest pest, with his Waterloo and 
his Doom, comprises Part VII. 

Part VIII consists of “A Hymn,” “Columbia,” “Lines to 
Colonel Roosevelt,” “The Skylark,” “The Robin,” “The Blue¬ 
bird,” and “Winter.” 

Part IX, in the main, is a discussion of political economy 
under the name of Bolshevism. In it is argued that the system 
of Capitalism is unjust, and should be reconstructed from the 
ground up. We are aware that the ideas advanced by us are 
unpopular; but, since “Truth is mighty and will prevail,” we 
face the future with steadfast faith. We write expecting nei¬ 
ther present praise nor financial reward, and choose rather to 
share the afflictions of the oppressed than to enjoy the leeks 
and garlic of Egypt for a season. 

Part X, “A Poetic Fancy,” we hope may prove interesting 
and instructive if not entertaining to the average reader. 


The Author. 







SCRIPTURAL Q UO T A TIONS. 

Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself .— Mark, Chapter xii, 
verse 31. 

In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return 
unto the ground .— Genesis, Chapter iii, verse 19. 

And if thy brother be waxen poor, and fallen in decay with 
thee, then thou shalt relieve him; yea, though he be a stranger, 
or a sojourner; that he may live with thee. Take thou no usury 
of him or increase; but fear thy God. Thou shalt not give him 
thy money upon usury, nor lend him thy victuals for increase .— 
Leviticus, Chapter xxv, verses 35, 36, 37. 

Blessed is he that consideretli the poor; the Lord will deliver 
him in time of trouble .— Psalms xli, verse 1. 

By faith Moses, when he was come to years, refused to be 
called the son of Pharaoh’s daughter t choosing rather to suffer 
affliction with the people of God, than to enjoy the pleasures 
of sin for a season; for he had respect unto the recompense of 
the reward .— Hebrews, Chapter xi, verses 24-26 abbr. 

For even when we were with you, this we commanded you, 
that if any would not work, neither should he eat. —II Thessa- 
lonians, Chapter iii, verse 10. 

But ye have despised the poor. Do not rich men oppress you, 
and draw you before the judgment seats ?— James, Chapter ii, 
verse 6. 

But whosoever hath this world’s good, and seeth his brother 
have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, 
how dwelleth the love of God in him ?— I John, Chapter iii, 
verse 17. 


Answers Some Objections To Prohibition. 

To the Editor The News—Sir: The principal objections to 
prohibition are: "It is against personal liberty.” "Prohibi¬ 
tion does not prohibit.” "The revenues of the State are 
reduced.” 

In all civilized communities many natural rights must be 
surrendered for the common good. It must be a call of the 
wild that would reason otherwise. If people are free to eat 
and drink what, when and where they please, why are such 
laws as those against the indiscriminate use of opium—the 
most valuable remedy known to medicine—enforced? I am not 
permitted to allay the most intense pain without another’s 
consent. Why forbid the unrestrained use of cocaine? I am 
no child, but a man. The money is mine—why may I not 
expend it for lottery, place it in the slot machine, risk it at 
the gaming table, on policy, etc.? The would-be suicide is not 
allowed by law to terminate his own miserable existence. 

"Prohibition does not prohibit.” Laws against larceny, 
backed up by united public sentiment and enforced by vigilant 
officers, are persistently violated. Why cannot laws against 
the saloon be reasonably well enforced in a sympathetic com¬ 
munity? This is all local option suggests. The Sunday and 
election laws are violated by the majority of the saloons; but 
who says "Kepeal those laws”? 

As to the revenue features: 

"Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 

Where wealth accumulates and men decay.” 

Know this, after estimating the cost and price of the saloon, 
God alone has space sufficient at his command to write out 
the loss! 

Feb. 22, 1909. Alex. Francis. 


A Resume Of The Theological, Physiological and Historical 
Arguments Against Alcohol. 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: Why should we of 
the 20th century A. D. have to listen to Christian theologians 
and Jewish rabbis appeal to a horde of Jews, who lived 3000 
or 4000 years ago, to approve or disapprove of the use of 
intoxicating beverages? Even those barbarians recognized the 
awful consequences of overindulgence, as many warnings 
couched in the most forceful language known to man prove. 

Suppose men, reckoned good, and so pronounced by God, 
drank to excess; they also held slaves, had more than one wife 
at a time, and divorced their wives at their pleasure. Let an 


5 




advocate of “personal liberty” attempt any of these feats 
today. These men had not the light, the result of scientific 
investigation, and are to be excused. We are now convinced 
by many infallible proofs that liquor, instead of being a benevo¬ 
lent gift of God to man, is an invention of the devil for man’s 
destruction. 

Suppose Martin Luther did drink a schooner of beer—what 
is that to us? He died 368 years ago and the world, owing 
mainly to him, has advanced since then. Luther is not con¬ 
sidered impeccable or infallible. 

There are children, now living, who will describe to their 
grandchildren the awful results of the use of strong drink, and 
in reply to the query of the astonished child why the trade was 
not stamped out, will say: “Do not be too hard on us; in those 
years we were only half-civilized!” 

Feb. 6, 1914. Alex. Francis. 

Billy Sunday And Hysteria. 

To the Editor The Sun—Sir: By all means give us Billy 
Sunday. We old Methodists are not afraid of “religious hys¬ 
teria.” We have had them under another name. A case of 
“religious hysteria” is like smallpox—extremely contagious and 
very purifying; but, unlike that dreaded disease, leaves no bad 
marks behind. Some years ago a mother “shouted,” in a Savan¬ 
nah, Ga., court room, on the acquittal of her son charged with 
murder; a person is rescued, in the sight of the multitude, from 
a burning building, and the noise of the multitude is like that 
of a near battle; a touchdown is scored by the Navy, and the 
sound is like the roar of Niagara; but let a home run be scored 
in a baseball world’s championship series, and the noise is of 
an earthquake. But, pshaw! this is not hysteria—this is en¬ 
thusiasm. 

Let a person in church say glory! or hallelujah! when a 
sinner, lost, undone, rights about and starts for Heaven. That 
is not enthusiasm—that is “religious hysterics.” There is 
something wrong with his head; put him out; he makes us 
nervous; he is disturbing the meeting! 

Friends and brothers, there are worse things than “religious 
hysterics”; besides, the dead are immune. Billy Sunday is 
harshly criticized for extravagant claims as to the detersive 
qualities of soap. Had he praised beer as a liquid food, an 
uplifter of morals, and a producer of revenue for the State, 
censure might be praise with those who are now exercising 
their little brains by weak attempts to be funny at his expense. 

Feb. 28, 1914. Alex. Francis. 


6 




The Aim Of Prohibition. 

To the Editor The American—Sir: A correspondent claims 
that “prohibition is radically wrong, because it deprives a 
majority of the people of a good thing.” He shows his sobriety 
by not attempting to prove that intoxicating liquor is a good 
thing. Any substance that, when taken into the system as a 
beverage, affects the recipient in such a manner that “Nobody 
takes seriously the sayings of an intoxicated person, for all 
recognize that his brain is in a fever,” cannot be a good thing. 
Time was when the only security the weak had against the 
strong was to have nothing worth taking, and the only way for 
him to keep a wife was to have none that the stronger man 
desired. 

We prohibitionists do not claim that laws will reform the 
drunkards. Heartless as it may seem, the drunkard’s days 
are few and full of trouble. Ere long he will be over the “Great 
Divide.” We expect, by putting up the bars at the other end, 
to close the procession. 

This correspondent objects to the perpetual ferment and bad 
feeling caused by prohibition. When did intoxicating liquors 
produce prosperity, peace, good feeling, rest, health, happiness, 
home and Heaven? My friend, Billy Sunday, says: “Science 
has now gotten where it can take a dirty shirt out of an alley, 
which a billy goat would not touch, turn the shirt into glucose, 
the glucose into sugar, the sugar into booze, the booze into 
men, and the men into hell.” Rum has already caused enough 
tears to put out the fires of hell, and enough cries to break the 
silence of the spheres! 

Apr. 3, 1914. Alex. Francis. 


“As A Native-Born Citizen Of These United States Of Amer¬ 
ica” His Blood Is Stirred To Fever Heat By The Talk 
About Expressing “Regret” to Colombia.—And Though A 
Good Billy Sunday Man And A Believer In The Ten Com¬ 
mandments He Thinks It Makes No Difference If Roose¬ 
velt Did Steal The Panama Strip; Since Colombia Had 
Stolen It From The Indians And The Indians Had Stolen 
It From Somebody Else. 

To the Editor The Sun—Siir: As a native-born, free, white 
citizen of these United States of America I object to this Ad¬ 
ministration either forming or expressing any “regret,” either 
“friendly” or unfriendly, for our mode of occupying the Pan¬ 
ama strip. Neither am I careful to answer whether or not we 
fomented the revolution that gave us the opportunity to occupy 


7 




it. Like the dog in the manger, Colombia neither could nor 
would dig the canal, which had become a necessity for the best 
interests of the world. Thrice the value of this breeding place 
for yellow-fever mosquitoes was offered and thrice refused. 

By what right and title did Colombia hold this territory? 
No doubt, ownership has changed a thousand times since the 
creation, each succeeding horde, by force, assimilating seldom, 
if ever, benevolently, the possessors until the Spaniards arrived. 
Did these wretches buy the land from the Indians? Not on 
your life! They took the country by might, and not by right. 
Enslaving their predecessors, they rioted until their own chil¬ 
dren cast them out by force of arms and then they immedi¬ 
ately endeavored to block progress. 

The great and only Roosevelt blazed a way through this 
wilderness and opened it up to civilization. Now we are to 
apologize for our virtuous acts. It stirs the fever in the blood 
of age, so that it is impossible for a genuine American to dis¬ 
cuss this question without heat. 

Apr. 9, 1914. Alex. Francis. 


Respect For Law. 

To the Editor The American—Sir: We were shocked while 
reading the headline of an article in your issue of May 7— 
“Liquor Law A Joke”! and then followed an explanation how 
it became a joke. That any law should become a joke causes 
within me a feeling that is akin to pain. In this world for 
every event there is an adequate cause. Is each person to be 
allowed to respect or to treat as a joke any law that may not 
commend itself to him? We may show disloyalty by wearing a 
small flag concealed as by waving it from the house top; in¬ 
deed, the latter is more honorable. 

The I. W. W., owning no property, deny all property rights, 
and violate all laws made for its protection, claiming that their 
rights are being contravened. The property holder urges that 
such laws are sacred and most vociferously demands their pro¬ 
tection. The Prohibitionist strenuously calls for more law and 
the stricter enforcement of what is already given; while the 
adherent of the wet side, thinking that liquor is a beneficent 
gift to man of a beneficent God, yells that his liberty is being 
destroyed and perhaps imagines that he does God a service by 
making such laws a joke. 

One Eminence states that prohibitory laws change otherwise 
law-abiding citizens into liars, moonshiners and many new and 
startling specimens of society—therefore, give us local option! 


8 




When we asked for local option our cause was damned with 
faint praise and when we obtain prohibition we are liable to 
be made into liars, sneaks, etc., through the grant of our peti¬ 
tion. 

Perhaps those who are disposed to joke at law may find that 
their jokes are hastening prohibition. The vast majority of 
the people of this country are convinced that the use of intoxi¬ 
cating beverages is against the best interests of the country 
and have sense enough to stop the stream at the fountain’s 
head. 

May 18, 1914. Alex. Francis. 


Give Us More Fairy Tales. 

To the Editor The Sun—Sir: Ever and anon learned and 
labored communications, attacking the credibility of the Bar¬ 
bara Freitchie incident, appear in the daily papers of Balti¬ 
more. But, ladies and gentlemen, fellow-citizens! it is in vain 
and worse than useless. Your time and talents could be put 
to a more successful, if not more useful, task. Suppose it to be 
a myth? Ten thousand such persons as you—and this does not 
imply any weakness on your part—will never succeed in remov¬ 
ing it from the minds and hearts of posterity. It reads like 
true; we wish it were true; therefore it is true! A thousand 
years from now the young patriots will be heard declaiming, as 
ever: 

“Up rose old Barbara Freitchie then, 

Bow’d with her fourscore years and ten; 

Bravest of all in Frederick-Town 

She took up the flag the men hauled down.” 

Beautiful! too beautiful to die! Why should not Frederick 
build a monument to Barbara? She put Frederick on the 
map! In spite of all doubters and dissenters, William Tells 
continue to show how the apple was pierced, and rejoice with 
father and son. 

Did Horatius, in the good old days of Borne, defend the 
bridge? Did William Wallace perform the prodigies of valor 
attributed to him? It matters not. He is a national hero 
and no one can pluck him out of Scotland’s heart. You might 
just as well attempt to deprive David of the credit of dispos¬ 
ing of the giant as to undertake to head off these stories. They 
are now well on the way and never will be disproved. We are so 
glad of it, for they make life brighter. Are they fairy tales? 
If so, give us many more of the same kind, for this old world is 
full of dismal realities. 

June 29, 1914. 


9 


Alex. Francis. 




Dr. Francis Can't See Where Whittier Slandered Stonewall 
Jackson In His Poem. —.4s For Barbara, He Loves Her, If 
She Be A Fraud. 

To the Editor The Sun—Sir: “Methinks the lady doth pro¬ 
test too much.” It is with much sorrow that we see a trail of 
ill-feeling in the writings of the opponents of the Barbara 
Freitchie memorial. It is still in the blood, and nothing short 
of death will ever get it out. This ill-feeling rises to a flood in 
a letter signed by the historian of Loudon Chapter, United 
Daughters of the Confederacy. 

Having as a child fallen in love with Barbara through read¬ 
ing Whittier’s poem, with which I am familiar, we are in a 
position to examine it with intelligence. In what portion of 
this poem is it even intimated that “Stonewall Jackson ordered 
the death or worse” of any woman? The entire account is 
highly complimentary to Jackson, especially when we recall 
the intense hatred Whittier held against slavery and his fervent 
love for the stars and stripes. It is true the poet makes him 
order the destruction of the flag; but even this contributor will 
not deny that he, on every occasion, ordered the destruction of 
the defenders of the flag, and which is the worse? The brave 
boys in blue who went down before Thomas J. Jackson’s great 
military skill could not be replaced, while the flag could. 

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog! March on! he said.” 

Will someone please point out just where and how Jackson 
is slandered or his character as a Christian gentleman im¬ 
pugned? It must be fever in the blood that sees things which 
do not exist. The world never saw a more kindly hearted poet 
than Whittier, and if he be ruled out of Heaven as a “liar,” it 
is good-night to the most of us. 

Why should the waving of the Star-Spangled Banner, which 
in triumph still waves, insult anyone engaged in a cause that 
brings honor to our country? Frederick was insulted by the 
entrance of the Confederate flag; for Maryland was loyal. 
Jackson, Jefferson Davis and Lee stood for a cause that got a 
good licking, which they and their cause richly deserved. 

July 7, 1914. Alex. Francis. 


Dr. Francis Considers Billy Sunday A Direct Descendant Of 
The Apostles.—And He Administers A Charitable Rebuke 
To A Wicked Critic. 

To the Editor The Sun—Sir: A never-say-die-in-the-last- 
ditch opponent of Billy Sunday assails him notwithstanding 


10 




the miracles Billy is even now performing in Philadelphia, 
proving his apostleship! Human nature has not changed much 
since the time of Christ, when some would not be convinced 
though one arose from the dead to warn them. 

The mode of conducting a religious meeting commends itself 
to us through education and custom. To one unaccustomed to 
the sight, a shouting Methodist jumping into the air, clapping 
his hands and crying glory! glory! glory! at the rate of two 
hundred words to the minute, is the correct thing; while to one 
unaccustomed to it this appears appropriate only in a mad¬ 
house. On the other hand, a dim religious light, incense, pro¬ 
cessions, intoning, genuflections, etc., while appearing the proper 
thing to one reared to its use, to the other, the uninitiated-, they 
are theatricals pure and simple. 

To God, who charges his angels with folly, both must appear 
trifling; but looking into the heart of the true worshipper He 
accepts both. “Satire, sarcasm, invective, jest, doggerel and 
the antics of a seeming clown” and all other forms of rhetoric 
and acting may be used to further the glory of God. The devil 
should have no monopoly of them; give God a chance! 

Jan. 11, 1915. Alex. Francis. 


What Is The Proper Use Of Alcohol? 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: In your issue of 
May 4 “B.” argues against prohibition and toward the last 
strikes the vital spot. He says: 

“They (the people of a large city) object to prohibition 
because (among other things) they are intelligent enough to 
realize that the proper use of intoxicating liquors can never be 
made a moral wrong in the light of common sense. It is intel¬ 
ligence, not weakness, that makes Baltimore different from a 
Carolina swamp.” 

But what is the proper use of alcohol? This is the point 
around which the battle rages. Your correspondent falls down 
at the supreme moment and so do all the other liquor advocates. 
Prohibitionists claim that alcohol is a narcotic, habit-forming 
drug, and, since all other drugs of that class are now on the 
shelves of the apothecaries, to be dispensed by order of a skillful 
physician, no exception should be made in the case of alcohol. 

A crowd of drunken fools lined up in front of a bar drinking 
intoxicating liquors, compounded of “wood alcohol, carbolic 
acid, bichloride of mercury, lead acetate, nitro-benzol—poisons 
that the druggist sells under a red skull and crossbones,” does 
not exhibit as much sense as a Carolina swamp. The Carolina 


11 




swamp will produce rice, but what thing of use will this crowd 
supply ? Their job most surely is non-essential! 

May 5, 1915. Alex. Francis. 


John Wesley vs. The Schoolboys Of Today. 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: A correspondent 
announced the discovery that John Wesley, who died in 1791, 
was a booze-hoister. Therefore, he argues, that all good Metho¬ 
dists of 1915 should also hoist the poisonous stuff. John Wesley 
believed in witches and taught that they are enemies of God 
and man. Therefore, all good Methodists of 1915 should cease 
to sing “Down with rum!” and give due diligence to clearing 
the land of witches. John Wesley was a good and wise man. 
Perhaps he had no equal in his day and generation; still the 
pupils of our public schools today, who are, say, 12 years of 
age, know more about the effects of alcohol on the human system 
than John Wesley did when he was 87. 

June 6, 1915. Alex. Francis. 


Robbery And Rum, Marriage And Mephisto, Bibuli And The 

Bible . 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: We hold this to be 
self-evident that highway robbery is honorable compared with 
rum selling. The highwayman does give you some show for 
your purse when he calls from ambush “Hands up!” His 
victim may be brave and resourceful enough to enter the con¬ 
test on equal terms, but the miserable drunken sot vainly 
imagines it to be the voice of a friend and hilariously hands 
over his all. 

Another correspondent thinks that “logic” is life and would 
argue that it is not wood alcohol, but an impaired optic nerve, 
that causes the loss of sight and that law and not liquor sends 
men to jail. We judge that the devil is the ringleader of the 
crowd, but since we cannot lay hands on him, as sensible peo¬ 
ple we propose to lay hands on what we can—that is, his chief 
weapon—rum. 

1915. Alex. Francis. 


The Wine At Cana. 

To the Editor of the Evening Sun—Sir: Our line still 
holds. That it might have been “Swetchenwasser” that was 
made by Christ at Cana commends itself to me, in that the 
word may be one-half right, which is 50 per cent, nearer the 
published facts than the drinkers of Swetchenwasser have come 
to yet. 


12 








This discussion becomes monotonous. Notwithstanding my 
warning to disputers to bar grape juice, we have grape juice 
to the right of us, grape juice to the left of us, grape juice be¬ 
hind us, grape juice in front of us, and grape juice on top of 
us. But there was no grape juice in this wine either fermented 
or unfermented. 

One reason for suggesting the absence of grape juice from 
the wine at Cana is that the narrative mentions hut three arti¬ 
cles—jars, water and wine. Of what significance is the expres¬ 
sion “And they filled them (the jars) up to the brim” except 
it be to spike the guns of those theological agnostics who now 
claim that this wine was made a la root beer ? 

According to Aristotle and Galen, seven years was the short¬ 
est period for keeping wine before it was fit for drinking, and 
by equally reliable authorities we are informed that much of 
this wine, made of grape juice, was boiled thick and syrupy and 
contained little if any alcohol. 

A lot of conscienceless men are making use of the fact that 
Christ by a miracle produced wine fit for human use to induce 
a lot of idiots to pay big money for the privilege of acting as 
a poison squad, for the financial benefit of the promoters, 
through use of their foul imitations. Moreover, there is no 
occasion, under any conditions, to accuse the Apostles of “lying” 
since there is but one involved, St. John. 

July 7 and 12, 1915. Alex. Francis. 


Testimony Against Rum. 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: Testimony of ex¬ 
perts on the rum question. Professor Esche (Dresden)—Not 
only the immoderate, but the regular use of alcohol influences 
unfavorably the intellectual capacity of the moral qualities of 
men. 

The Hon. David Lloyd George—Drink is doing more dam¬ 
age to this country than all the German submarines put to¬ 
gether. 

The Mississippi Supreme Court—Whiskey is a good thing 
in its place. There is nothing like it for preserving a man 
when he is dead. If you want to keep a dead man, put him in 
whiskey; if you want to kill a live man, put whiskey in him. 

Sir Walter Raleigh—It were better for a man to be subject 
to any vice rather than drunkenness, for all other vanities and 
sins are recovered, but a drunkard will never shake off the 
delights of his beastliness. It dulleth the spirits and destroyeth 
the body as ivy doth an old tree or as a worm that engendereth 
in the kernel of the nut. 


13 




Sir Thomas Lipton—Corkscrews have sunk more people 
than cork jackets have ever saved. 

Theodore Roosevelt—A business that tends to lawlessness on 
the part of those who conduct it and to criminality on the part 
of those who patronize it. 

Oct. 22, 1915. Alex. Francis. 


The Churches Should ‘‘Sand The Track To Hell/' Dr. Francis 

Thinks. 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: Some think that the 
work of the Christian Church is to oil the road to Heaven, but 
not to sand the track to hell. Many writers for your Forum 
complain that the interest the church is now taking in the 
“wet” or “dry” contest is politics. How liquor or no liquor 
enters the field of partisan politics is beyond my ken. 

If the church is to seek to save its followers in eternity, and 
not to improve moral conditions in time, it has failed in one of 
its most important functions. The fact that the lead in all 
moral reforms is taken by the youngest, rather than by “the 
eldest,” branch of the Christian Church is in fulfillment of the 
prophecy, “A little child shall lead them.” 

The Methodist Church, by stirring up things, shows that it is 
alive and healthy, and for that reason entitled to grow. Some 
dissenters think that the best way to make a human being mor¬ 
ally strong is to place temptation before him and let him gain 
strength through resistance. These people are wiser in their 
own eyes than their Creator, Lord and Master, who taught us 
to pray “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” 
Since “we are coworkers together with God,” it is our duty 
to assist by removing the evil, those trapdoors to hell—the sa¬ 
loons—and thus suffer us not to be led into temptation. If the 
proper way to upbuild the believer is to have him grow strong 
by going into and resisting temptation, then let him desert 
his church and consort with thieves, prostitutes and drunkards. 

Why should we be refused the right to stir up enthusiasm 
through the church and Sunday-school when we know full well, 
as we often have seen, the brewers, distillers and saloon-keepers 
have been, are now and will be exercising the opportunity to 
enthuse their crowd with “Dutch courage”? 

In your Forum of June 22 we find the same old familiar lie 
about W. H. Anderson appearing once more. Mr. Anderson 
left Maryland because he was offered a similar position in a 
State seven times as populous as Maryland where his oppor¬ 
tunities for work were enlarged and his salary increased. 

June 23, 1916. Alex. Francis. 


14 




Dr. Francis Indulges In Some “Cuss” Words In His Zeal For 
Political Purity. 

To the Editor The Sun—Sir: On examination of a sample 
Wilson-law ballot, which I possess, the verdict must be that 
law is a most damnable fraud and a hellish device against de¬ 
mocracy. Better an aristocracy, as expressed by the “Huns,” 
in which everyone is guaranteed and given all the rights of 
his class, than this style of democracy. A similar course in the 
business world would land the thieves in the “Pen.” While 
in politics these conscienceless rogues may expect to escape 
the “Pen,” they will surely not escape the damnation of hell! 

Don’t insult my intelligence by supposing that any square 
man would devise, or suffer to be devised, if in his power to 
prevent it, a ballot 48 inches long by 18 inches wide, spaced 
with 15 inches between name and voting squares, without lead¬ 
ing lines; and, oh! the supreme villainy, more squares than 
names of candidates. This ballot is to be opened, marked and 
refolded, in a booth, perhaps, 24 inches wide, on a board 12 
inches in width, by the light of a tallow dip. A clerk could not 
do it without the aid of a straight edge. 

Ah, but you say, it is to be done by all. Hot on your life. 
Place your mark inside the first square, or squares of each 
division, and, presto, the entire Democratic ticket is elected. 
Reader, you say the end sought (the disfranchisement of the 
negro) justifies the means! The Kaiser says the same. 

June 26, 1917. Alex. Francis. 


Yes, And Wilson Has Openly And Consistently Advocated 
Woman s Suffrage, And Has Received Dozens Of Women 
Delegations, But When Did He Ever Consent To Support 
A Federal Amendment? 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: Whether Mr. Malone 
be a deserter from the President or the President a deserter 
from Mr. Malone depends on which side of the shield you 
inspect. Having listened carefully to his address at Albaugli’s, 
I am prepared to give a connected account of picketing from 
Mr. Malone’s standpoint. 

In the campaign immediately preceding the election of Mr. 
Wilson for the second term, Mr. Malone, as a personal repre¬ 
sentative of, and with the knowledge of the candidate, made 
many addresses in the woman suffrage States; more especially 
in California. In these addresses he assured the women that 
Mr. Wilson was a friend of their cause, and that in the event 
of his election, he would openly advocate this measure. 

15 




Mr. Malone reminded the newly inaugurated President of 
these pre-election promises ; but he was turned down. A body 
of ladies, representing this cause, asked the privilege to pre¬ 
sent a petition; but they also were turned down; and it was then 
that the picketing began. It having been announced that the 
pickets were to be arrested on the charge of obstructing traffic, 
a large crowd gathered to see the fun, and travel was blocked 
(not by the pickets, but by the crowd). The arrested pickets 
were denied the right of trial by jury and were illegally sent 
to Occaquan, where they were subjected to terrorizing influences 
calculated to break their spirit of resistance. By action of 
court they were transferred to the District Jail, and after New 
York had spoken were invited to go free. 

Dec. 5, 1917. Alex. Francis. 


The President May Be A Peculiar Man, But What Kind Of A 
Man Is This Correspondent? 

To the Editor The Sun—Sir: President Wilson is a peculiar 
man; strange in all things except consistency. In this respect 
he resembles Pharoah, whose best known expression is “tomor¬ 
row.” The President stood calmly on the shore seeing Russia 
go down for the first time, in the second year for the second 
time, and in the third year for the third and last time. Now 
he proposes to use the grappling irons and raise the corpse. 
To what purpose? 

The only assistance the United States gave Russia, worthy 
of notice, during these long, long years was to sell them muni¬ 
tions of war at war rates, and famine prices, thereby boosting 
Bethlehem Steel from 50 to 500. We expect little from Rus¬ 
sia, but much from the United States, for “Where little is given 
but little is required.” 

March 12, 1918. Alex. Francis. 


This Champion Of Holiness And The Uplift Favors The Prize 

Fight. 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: Let the Willard-Ful- 
ton contest proceed. Pray, why not? I hear the promoters 
of the fight are to donate a percentage of gate receipts toward 
winning the war. Personal liberty is at stake. Whose business 
is it if these distinguished gentlemen choose to pummel each 
other to jelly? This city, by a majority of between 30,000 and 
40,000, favored contests between booze guzzlers and “John 
Barleycorn” for a small share of receipts, which verdict was 
encouraged by The Evening Sun. 

16 






lulton may have some chance against Willard, but the aver- 
age boozer doesn t have a look-in against “Barleycorn.” 

Reference The Boston Strong Boy (John L. Sullivan), the 
noblest Roman of them all, knocked out, not by Gentleman 
Jim, but by Barleycorn John. 

April 1? 1918. Alex. Francis. 


A Weak And Watery Argument For Prohibition By An Intem¬ 
perate Temperance Man. 

To the Editor The Sun—Sir: The controversy now raging 
is as follows: Is wine drinking favorable to civilization and it 
is not, may a wine-drinking people survive? More than one- 
half of the Jews of the world are in Russia today, so I am 
informed, which may in part explain the peculiar civilization 
of those unfortunate people. That Jewish civilization has per¬ 
sisted in spite of wine, beer, whiskey, and all other kinds of 
booze, is no proof that wine drinking is necessary or even favor¬ 
able to Western nations. That we Americans may safely imi¬ 
tate the Jews is given a jolt when we read that the Israelites 
passed dryshod through the Red Sea, which the Egyptians, 
essaying to do, were drowned. 

That there are individual Huns, Chinese, Hottentots and 
South Sea Islanders superior to me as to physique, mind, mor¬ 
als, and faith is freely confessed, but three-fourths of us 
Americans would shout for joy should the boozers among the 
Jews plant their banner on Mount Zion and stay there. 

The greatest example of justice, fraternity and liberty the 
world ever saw came to Israel, but His teachings were so for¬ 
eign to their civilization that He was promptly repudiated and 
cast out. The actions and words of both hierarchy and mob 
cause one to suspect that they were filled with wine, both old 
and new. 

Aug. 20, 1918. Alex. Francis. 


“If any man here,” shouted the temperance speaker, “can 
name an honest business that has been helped by the saloon, I 
will spend the rest of my life working for the liquor people.” 
A man in the audience arose. “I consider my business an hon¬ 
est one,” he said, “and it has undoubtedly been helped by the 
saloon.” “What is your business?” yelled the orator. “I, sir,” 
responded the man, “am an undertaker.” 


When you are asked to drink, my son, and have half a mind 
to accept the invitation, remember that if you had a whole 
mind you wouldn’t.— John Burns. 

17 








Cardinal Gibbons says: “Intemperance has caused little 
children to be hungry and cold, to grow up among evil associ¬ 
ates, to be reared without the knowledge of God. It has broken 
up more homes and wrecked more lives than any other curse 
on the face of the earth.” 


When you down booze, that is personal liberty; when booze 
downs you, that is slavery.— Selected. 

Billy Sunday says: “The saloon sent the bullet through the 
body of Lincoln. It nerved the arm of the assassins who struck 
down Garfield and McKinley.” 

- ■ - 

“Well,” said the farmer, “if your saloon will help the town, 
draw trade and improve business, they ought to give you a 
bounty instead of making you pay a high price for the privi¬ 
lege of starting a saloon.” 

- ■ - 

“Nock” urges that Congress ought to investigate the liquor 
traffic before rashly prohibiting it. All of which is very much 
like urging the Methodist General Conference to make an inves¬ 
tigation of hell before fighting against it. 


Father C. P. Baron says: “What about the good saloon? I 
never heard of one. My honest opinion is that the good saloon 
is the bad saloon, and the better the saloon, the worse saloon, 
and the best saloon, the worst saloon.” 


Father Mullen, of Hudson, Mass., says: “Those who lose 
their jobs under no license have as much right to complain as 
the undertakers, hearse drivers and grave diggers have against 
the physician who cleans up a yellow-fever pestilence.” 


A Prohibitionist Calls The President “A Criminal” Because 
Mr. Wilson Does Not Think It Is A Crime To Drink 
Beer. 

To the Editor The Sun—Sir: “Waste is more than foolish 
under present conditions—it is criminal.” Thus spoke an emi¬ 
nent divine, and so say we all; therefore, all who waste, and all 
abettors and aiders of waste, are criminals. To waste food is 
to place it where it will produce no adequate return. 

A great daily says: “If the Senate wishes to celebrate the 
Fourth of July in the most patriotic manner possible, it will 
quit disputing over the question of drink and settle the ques¬ 
tion of food.” Brave words, but words only; for to manufac- 

18 

















ture this kind of drink the food must not only be destroyed 
as such, but he converted into a poison to destroy the efficiency 
of the user. If this is not waste—therefore a crime—and all 
aiders and abettors, including our President, criminals, then I 
am non compos. 

Does anyone imagine that millions of loaves of bread being 
cast into the vats of the brewers and distillers will be calcm 
lated to. produce content in the hearts and minds of those who 
are advised to eat less or finally starve? We propose to fight 
it out on this line if it takes the whole war. The most absurd 
thing about this whole fraud is this—to the soldiers, sailors 
and children of .this country this foodstuff is a total loss, for, 
after its conversion into strong drink, no person in the uniform 
of Uncle Sam, and no child, is permitted to buy any of it 

July 2, 1919. Alex. Francis. 

- ■ - 

If A Man Has A Right To Store Up Money Against A Day of 
Famine, Had He No Right To Store Up Booze Aqainst 
The Day Of Drouthf 

To the Editor The American—Sir: Mr. G. says: “I wish 
Mr. Francis would tell me why the Anti-Saloon League is so 
insistent upon .the policy of permitting men of means to store 
up vast quantities of liquors for their homes for future con¬ 
sumption.” The League is not “insistent” on this question, 
but faces “a condition, and not a theory.” 

It is not from choice, but from dire necessity, that this policy 
is acquiesced in. These “men of means” are powerful and block 
the track. It is not the fault, therefore, of the League that 
this hypocrisy characterizes this reform, but it is the fault of 
these “men of means.” Separate these “men” from their 
“means” and they will become shorn Samsons. 

We Bolshevists propose to separate these “Napoleons of' Fin¬ 
ance” from their surplus means; then good-bye surplus whis¬ 
key. Why. has not a man as much right to store up whiskey 
against a time of drouth as for the same individual to store up 
vast sums of property against a day of famine? Will he char¬ 
acterize the laws and customs that lead to this injustice as 
hypocrisy ? 

July 3, 1919. Alex. Francis. 


An Hminent Moralist Now Has Added Bolshevism To His 
Pet “Ismsr 

To the Editor Evening Sun—Sir: A sailor explaining how 
prize money was distributed said: “It is sifted through a 
ladder; what falls between the rungs the officers get; what sticks 

19 






to the rungs goes to the sailors.” It is true that the rungs 
have been enlarged, lately, but the lion’s share still goes to 
the officers. We Bolshevists propose to change this mode of 
distribution and give all to the sailors; officers being expected 
to qualify as sailors. 

The reward of labor may appear large, but it is only by 
comparison that anything appears small or large. The salary 
of the maintenance laborer is a mere bauble compared with 
that of the president of the road; and the salary of this pres¬ 
ident is trifling compared with the income of Rockefeller, Car¬ 
negie, Morgan, Mellon, Ford, et al.! Does not the maintenance- 
of-way toiler, who receives 25c. per hour, together with his 
family, need as much food, require as much clothing, and call 
for as many cubic inches of house room as these magnates? 
Do not the toiler’s children merit as good living conditions and 
education as their children ? 

Those “one-dollar-per-year men” who worked so hard for the 
Government received their usual income from other sources, 
and we are not such silly geese as to be caught honking for 
these financial camouflaging patriots. We see by your paper 
that the distillers intend to regulate the whiskey traffic by sell¬ 
ing their poisons through the stores. Too late, gents. There is 
coming a time when God, becoming tired of regulating hell, 
proposes to cause it to be swallowed up. We are now so tired 
of regulating the saloons that we intend to see that they are 
swallowed up by orderly process of law. 

Aug. 27, 1919. Alex. Francis. 


An Eminent Moralist Would Welcome E. W. G. Into The Fold 
After Delousing And Fumigation. 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: An irresponsible 
individual charges that the Methodists are leaders of the psalm 
singers m this part of the world; whereas the Methodists are 
not pslam singers at all. This is plainly shown when we recall 
that the very latest hit among us is that popular hymn “Good¬ 
bye, Forever, Saloon!” This great favorite is not even a myth¬ 
ical version of any Psalm. 

He next says we are trying to stop horse racing; whereas we 
are only trying to stop betting on the races. We never made 
an attempt to close a single saloon; we sought to remove intoxi¬ 
cating liquors from the saloon. This, it is claimed, is taking 
joy out of life; but we Methodists hold that it is putting joy 
into the drunkard’s home, and that his “personal liberty” is 
not worthy of consideration. 


20 




Since the Bolshevists are so busy destroying the church all 
persons in the same business should pray for their success and 
not throw cold water on us Bolshevists. The Methodist Church 
will, as in the past, welcome all wanderers from the straight 
and narrow path to its fold, after the usual fumigating and 
delousing process, to which all are compelled to submit. We 
place our converts in soak for the space of six months, tech¬ 
nically called taking them in on probation. 

May 13, 1920. Alex. Francis. 


Bank Presidents Should Walk And Let Grubbers And Ditchers 
Use Their Automobiles, Says Alex. Francis, Who Will 
Fight It Out On This Line. 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: On or about June 
24 I wrote that, for every reason advanced why the bank pres¬ 
ident should ride to and from his office, and the grubber and 
ditcher walk to and from his toil, I engage to give two equally 
as good reasons why the grubber and ditcher should ride, and 
the president walk. 

Within a few hours some “Smart Aleck” transformed this 
obvious fact into “Alex. Francis contends that bankers should 
be deprived of automobiles for the benefit of faithful grubbers 
and ditchers.” Ere long some idiot, a la “three black crows,” 
will have it that Bolshevist Francis claims that faithful grub¬ 
bers and ditchers should be made bank presidents, and the bank 
presidents put into the ditch. We hold to no such theories. 
Place each man where he is best fitted; the vast difference in 
reward for faithful service is the point of attack. 

One reason, among many, why the president should walk of 
his own accord is this: he is compelled, to get the necessary 
exercise for health, to play golf, etc., out of office hours, while 
the laborer is only too glad to rest. Walking is the most 
healthful exercise known to man. Automobiles are not a 
necessity, anyhow; let all mingle with the common herd in pub¬ 
lic conveyances. 

July 10, 1920. Alex. Francis. 


A Great Moralist Has Seen Three Of His Reforms Go Across 
And Now Wants Christian Bolshevism. 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: That when we say 
“We demand that every child born into the world shall, at its 
birth, receive its pro rata share of elbow room,” we mean that 
every child, at its birth, shall have a silver spoon thrust into 
its mouth, is too nonsensical for consideration, much less for 
answer. 


21 






The character of the spoon concerns us but little, what the 
spoon contains is the vital substance. If there be enough silver 
in the world to supply a silver spoon for each child, we vote 
for that kind of spoon, which, when taken on the whole, is the 
most desirable metal for spoons. The situation to which we 
object is that which supplies several silver spoons to one child, 
while the other must be satisfied with one of brass. 

If on account of the scarcity of silver, an alloy be necessary, 
then my child should have as high silver grade alloy as any 
other child in the whole round world, for he is just as worthy, 
and the fact that he happens to be my child is an accident of 
birth, for which he has no responsibility. 

Let “Considerate Parent/’ or any other considerate person, 
answer the following question: Why should one child have 
$20,000 per year poured down its throat while another, in all 
respects just as worthy, be compelled to tug at the breast of a 
frail woman in order to get a few drops of nourishment while 
she, with but one hand free, washes clothes? The first condi¬ 
tion has been pictured to me; the second, I have seen. But 
you villains will say the second situation was the result of 
laziness, improvidence, intemperance, etc. Perhaps so; but, if 
so, why should the innocent child suffer? 

That “the bloodthirsty, cruel-hearted, white-livered Bolshe- 
viki” should deal so leniently with children as to allow them to 
use all their spare time in play is a contradiction of human 
nature, for “the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.” 

Three great epochs, in which we bore an humble part, have 
marked my life—Abolition of slavery, prohibition of strong 
drink and woman suffrage. How, may the good Lord spare my 
life to see a fourth—Christian Bolshevism—“Thou shalt love 
thy neighbor as thyself.” 

The fourth great miracle is destined to be—The reign in 
triumph of the Bolsheviki.” 

Aug. 18, 1920. Alex. Francis. 


Hogs And Humans. 

To the Editor The Sun—Sir: A “Sunbeam” published in 
your journal of this date says: “The most distressing thing 
about poverty is the fact that other people are rich.” To this 
statement we wish to add a hearty amen, and further add that 
the cause of this “most distressing” situation is the fact of its 
lack of necessity. In this blessed country of superabundance 
the necessity for poverty is not apparent. There is enough for 


22 




each, enough for all, if not enough forevermore. The fact that 
the “other people are rich” is the explanation why the many 
are poor. The rich are fertilized beyond the needs of nature. 

In a hogpen to find some lean and rangy, while others are 
fat and sleek, proves that some of the hogs are stronger or more 
cunning than the rest, but all may have been equally diligent in 
pursuit of food placed before them. We have seen many a 
little runt shoved entirely out of the trough by his huskier 
brother or sister and the same applies to the rooters of the 
forest. 

Give to each hog an individual trough and ration him accord¬ 
ing to its need; that is, let him have what he will apply to 
proper use. This is the theory of Bolshevism, of the Golden 
Rule, the Royal Law and is the coming thing. 

Jan. 21, 1921. Alex. Francis. 


To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: Why should the 
goose that lays the golden egg be suffered to live? The one 
that lays the ordinary egg is the more valuable, since it is the 
one that keeps the goose family going. “Fair Play” asks one 
question, “Does Bolshevism better the condition of the child?” 
Whether Russian Bolshevism does or not we cannot say, since 
so little is known in America of the true conditions in that 
distressed country. We know that Russia is compelled to place 
a ring of fire around herself to keep out fierce human beasts. 

I am a Bolshevist! Many persons braver than I would not 
dare to announce this; but having no wife or little ones to 
carry, it does not cost me much to be brave. My slogan is— 
The blackest child found in the alligator swamps of Georgia 
should have an equal opportunity possessed by the $20,000 per 
year child of the North and West. Pull the child out of the 
swamp; give it a chance in life! It will pass this way but 
once. Life, even in this, the best country of the world, is very 
uneven, therefore an unjust race; and the strong should be 
compelled to bear the infirmities of the weak. 

“Our present laws and form of government and society are 
as perfect as human ingenuity can make them,” says “Citi¬ 
zen.” There is nothing perfect in religion, nature or state. 
Darwin claimed that after 10,000,000,000—a few more or less 
years—nature is still on the road to perfection. St. Paul, in 
religion, asserts that he was going on to perfection; and gov¬ 
ernment in this grand and glorious country was lately improved 
by the enactment of two amendments to the Constitution. 


23 




The Editors of the newspapers are the slaves of the moneyed 
interests that own the press. So long as they satisfy their 
bosses they are secure in their positions; otherwise off go their 
heads! They are parrots, not men, and we cannot well con¬ 
demn them, for they must live. 

That “Here we pay taxes according to our wealth generally 
speaking” is contrary to facts, for the man who rents the 
house pays not only the taxes, but all other expenses. The bulk 
of the rich man’s taxes are thus handed down to the ultimate 
consumer. Since the laborer and his dependents consume all 
he gets, his assessment is out of all proportion to the wealthy. 

March 12, 1921. Alex. Francis. 


In A Long Life He Has Had Less Than A Teaspoonful Of 
Whiskey.—No Wonder He Is A Prohibitionist And A Bol¬ 
shevist. 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: “I defy Dr. Francis 
to prove that God ever called Noah anything but a good man.” 
That proves nothing; David committed a series of most infa¬ 
mous crimes, and yet God called David a man after His own 
heart. God never directly or indirectly, made one drop of 
an intoxicating beverage. The grape or berry, if permitted to 
remain on the vine, will gradually dry up, and if removed and 
exposed to the air, will do the same. To secure vinous fer¬ 
mentation the grape, berry or juice must be protected from 
evaporative processes. Grain, if kept dry, will remain as it is 
for centuries; if kept moist will sprout, but not develop alco¬ 
holic properties. 

A man, who ought to know better, says that God did not 
consider it a crime to get drunk. Hear what Paul, an inspired 
mouthpiece of God, says: “Be not deceived; neither fornicators, 
nor idolators, nor effeminates, nor abusers of themselves with 
mankind, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, 
nor extortioners, shall inherit the Kingdom of God.” This is 
not a bevy of beauties. Whether God considers it a crime to 
gat drunk is not being discussed. The Constitution of the IT. 
S. forbids the manufacture, for sale, of intoxicating beverages, 
and all must say amen! or prove themselves anarchists. 

“Hoping I may meet ‘Alex.’ some day and take a drink with 
him, I sign myself Fair Play.” This hope is vain; for, even 
before arriving at the age of discretion, we had too much sense 
to drink poison, and during a long life all the whiskey I ever 
drank, as a beverage or medicine, would not fill a teaspoon. 

Sept. 25, 1922. Alex. Francis. 


24 




A Question Of Percentage. 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: Appleton’s Encyclo¬ 
pedia says: “Fermentation is retarded or arrested by the 
action of various substances. An accumulation of about 15 
per cent, of alcohol arrests it.” Winston’s, a later authority, 
says: “Wine, containing more than 13 per cent, of alcohol, may 
be assumed to be fortified with brandy or spirits.” Therefore, 
if anyone made wine 18 to 20 per cent, alcoholic, it must have 
been “fortified with brandy or spirits.” 

The port and sherry of 35 per cent, and domestic wines of 
28 per cent., mentioned in communications, were all fortified 
wines. The light wines, of which w T e are hearing so much, are 
unfortified—that is, not reinforced with distilled liquors; to 
wit, brandy or spirits. Brandy is distilled wine, while spirits 
is a distillate from grain, etc., of about 50 per cent. 

I usually fortify my position with facts before pronounc¬ 
ing pronunciamentos; but am well advanced in age and experi¬ 
ence. All correspondents, I hope, will learn in this school of 
experience, if they will not learn in any other. To say that 
cider is mostly made to be used as an intoxicating beverage is 
foolishness. Cider is prepared principally for conversion into 
vinegar, whereas whiskey, wines and beer for beverage purposes 
almost entirely. 

Sept. 8, 1922. Alex. Francis. 


The Spartacus Of Bonedryness Defies The Gladiators of Rum. 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: Everyone should 
know by this time that we quote Scripture when it is neces¬ 
sary to bolster up an otherwise doubtful argument ; but in the 
case of amen! among anarchists, it is but giving that which is 
holy to dogs and casting your pearls before swine, combined 
with carrying coals to Newcastle. 

As to the statement, “Strange to say, however, none of our 
great men of the past or present can” (say that they had too 
much sense to drink poison). Like Spartacus, I can say that 
for thirteen years I have met in the arena every shape of man 
or beast the broad empire of Rum could furnish and never yet 
lowered my arm. If there be any three among the Knights of 
Rum that dare meet me on the bloody sands, let them come on! 
Yet I was not always a savage butcher of much more savage 
men. 

In the meanwhile, that purse of $500 remains in the bank 
awaiting the champion of the rummies who imagines that he 


25 




can give one sound, solid, sensible reason why light wines and 
beer should be allowed and whiskey tabooed. 

Oct. 6, 1922. Alex. Francis. 


He Thinks The Evening Sun “Will Be A Bolshevik By and By.” 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: The following ex¬ 
tract from an editorial in “The Evening Sun” of this date 
started a series of thoughts in my mind: “For it is clearly ob¬ 
vious that most governmental regulation of roads has been in 
effect a case of running the roads for the 2,080,000 jobholders 
rather than for the benefit of shippers and stockholders.” 

Reading between the lines, we conclude that the order of 
beneficiaries advocated by you is shippers, stockholders, job¬ 
holders. We, the Bolsheviki, congratulate you in your prog¬ 
ress ! 

Don’t lose your nerve, and never say die, 

And you’ll be a Bolshevik by and by. 

The order was stockholders, jobholders, the public be-! 

Well, how can we say it? We cannot express our exact mean¬ 
ing always in words. We, the Bolsheviki, contend that the 
order should be jobholders, shippers, stockholders be-! 

That our view is correct is proved by Scripture. Paul, in I 
Corinthians, ix., 14, says: “The Lord ordained that they which 
preach the Gospel should live of the Gospel”; and, for the same 
reason, they who operate the roads should live by the roads. 
This does not debar the stockholders from living off the roads. 
Let them go to work on the roads and become, thereby, pre¬ 
ferred creditors. 

Oct. 19, 1922. Alex. Francis. 


This Noted Moralist Approves The Assassination Of The 
Priests in Russia. 

What has occurred recently in Russia to justify so much 
expressed indignation against that country? We might sup¬ 
pose that when the Romanoff regime sent the wretch, who by 
accident opened his mouth a little wider than usual, to the 
Siberian mines to die a long-drawn-out death everything was 
serene in Russia; but when a prelate convicted of treason is 
called upon to face the firing squad for an up-to-date death all 
humane souls are “disgusted.” 

Why has not Russia the same right to define and punish 
treason as any other sovereign nation? We are well aware 


26 








that some fossils still insist that ecclesiastics should be tried in 
ecclesiatical courts. Why should treason, which is a political 
offense, be tried in that court? Such a course would not be 
followed in the United States of America. 

Eugene V. Debs was sentenced to Atlanta penitentiary for 
ten years because he resisted draft in time of war. A Russian 
priest was sentenced to ten years for resisting the efforts of the 
government to preserve human beings from starvation. With 
treasures of jewels and precious stones in his control, millions 
were starving, and, notwithstanding the clearest admonition 
of Scripture, this “hireling” of the fold would rather see his 
flock perish of hunger than be separated from the ornamental 
wealth of the church. How dwells the love of God in him ? His 
execution would not be slaying a Christian; even the heathen 
has a more kindly heart than this false shepherd. 

Take it from me, should Mexico and Russia today open their 
resources to exploitation of capital, recognition would follow 
tomorrow without their “barbarisms” being even mentioned 
against them. 

Russia did in one year what we failed to do in fifteen—that 
is, made “a good little girl” out of Emma Goldman. Russia 
has been lied about more than any other nation since the dis¬ 
persion of Babel. 

April 10, 1923. Alex. Francis. 


All The Wets Will Finally “Get to Hell,” He Says. 

To the Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: As usual I was 
stirred to my inmost depths on reading the following head¬ 
lines of your edition of this date, “Liquor Sale Control Hets 
Quebec Big Sum. Canadian Province Has Surplus of 
$5,000,000 As Result Of Plan In Effect. Wipes Out War 
Burdens. Money Spent On Education and Good Roads. Ob¬ 
server Impressed.” 

We presume that this surplus and also the wiper out of war 
burdens are the profits from the liquor transported by “fleets 
of automobile trucks” across our borders. Thus Quebec gets 
good roads and education, together with the removal of war 
burdens, while we get the booze. As it was in the beginning, 
is now and ever shall be, the makers and sellers of booze get 
the money, while the drinker gets liquid damnation. All par¬ 
ticipants will finally get to hell, for beyond Quebec lies hell. 

July 23, 1923. Alex. Francis. 


27 




His Knoivledge Of The “Register Of Heaven- ’ And The Scrip¬ 
tures Proves To Him That All Wets, Especially Editors, 
Will Go To Hell 

The knowledge that all the participants in the dissemination 
of booze will finally get to hell is arrived at through the process 
of elimination, and is based on the fact that the register of 
Heaven shows no arrivals of the wets. As there are but two 
places, we logically decide that they go to hell. 

The conclusion that the makers and sellers of booze, together 
with sympathetic editors, are between the drinkers, and the 
fire is based on the eternal fitness of things. 

July 30, 1923. Alex. Francis. 


But, Sir, Can “Father Abraham” Really “Send” Anybody 
“From Hell?” 

To The Editor The Evening Sun—Sir: “Hast thou found 
me, O, mine enemy ?” On February 9, 1917, “Dr. Zechia 
Judd” announced through the public press:- “I shall not of¬ 
fend Dr. Francis by personal reference further,” etc. Thus 
for six brief, happy years we w r ere free of this pest. We often 
wondered what had become of the witty Doctor, and on read¬ 
ing his effusion of the first instant we said, in our haste, 
Father Abraham has relented and sent Dr. Judd from hell to 
warn the “Wets” of the United States, lest they come to that 
place of torment; but finding that they will not hear him, he 
attacks me as a shining mark. 

With more than Satanic duplicity he argues. Place in 
Heaven all that God’s Word places in hell, and thus your 
friends will increase for multitude as the sands of the seashore, 
while the foundations of your enemies will be blown from be¬ 
neath them. 

Hay, nay, Dr. Judd. We are old and close to judgment. 
We have more sins on our souls than we are able to answer 
for, so why should we udd to the guilt of having read Vol¬ 
taire and Thomas Paine the sin of lying? 

The others mentioned (Heine, Shakespeare, Darwin, Hux¬ 
ley, Herbert Spencer), more especially Heine and Shakes¬ 
peare, are not quite so rotten, although Heine “called the Devil 
and he came,” showing too great familiarity with Satan. 

Aug. 8, 1923. Alex. Francis. 


2S 




PART I. 


THE APOLOGY. 

Why class this with lyrics and epics sublime? 
Effusions are often but prose set to rhyme! 

A bald extravaganza, conglomerate, 

May prove itself modest, sincere, up to date. 

While we, with a whole heart, applaud the hero, 
Forecast not a novel, but a curio. 

Accept this for granted: we have no intent 
To write a love story, but an argument. 

The lack of perfection may not be to fail; 

These lines are endeavoring to blaze a trail; 

The footprints, left by a wandering calf, may 
Become a Dixie or a Lincoln Highway! 

How, do not conclude that it probably took 
But one fleeting day to construct this small book; 

For whoever observed one bee in one hour, 

Though sipping the honey from each sweet flower, 
That works with ardor, and labors with skill, 

The tiniest of hives with nectar to fill? 

This product from whatever point it is viewed, 

Like olives, if relished, must be slowly chewed. 

This one little favor the author would ask— 

Peruse without bias or don’t start the task! 

Why change one inapt word—even a letter, 

Without introducing something that’s better? 

If any crass bulls on your eagle eye burst, 

You are my good friend—let me hear of it first ! 
This cover, with all its diversified lore, 

Will cost you one dollar—we’re glad it’s no more. 

If you think ’tis lacking in good common sense, 

The time that you gave it a loss represents, 

Why hurl this poor, blameless hodgepodge in the fire 
And give indication of folly and ire? 

Just pass it along to the very next man 
That meets you, and be as polite as you can! 
Hyperboles you’ll find abundant, of course— 

We got all these arts from rhetorical source. 

The bulk of humanity seek eminence; 

We find our chief comfort in children’s defense. 
Parnassus presents a long, tiresome upgrade, 

On low, second or high the ascents are made. 

Ho matter the gear or the car’s name, we ken 
The summit is reached by exceptional men! 

29 


THE DEFENSE. 


Perhaps some of my very best friends will say: 

“The cost of production this book will not pay; 

The author has squandered many good dollars, 

His work will be scouted by all bright scholars. 

The perfume will cling to the breath of the rose 
While Poetry’s pride spurns the unadorned Prose. 

This ninny had better provided a pall, 

Should have a design when he gets the last call; 

A slab of carved stone mark the place of his rest, 
When orders are issued for him to go West. 

The price of conveyance to graveyards is high; 

It costs much to live, but it costs more to die! 

And coffins and caskets, the price lists all teach, 

Are out of all reason—almost out of reach. 

A hospital bill will executors meet.” 

“Hold on,” says another; he’ll fall dead on the street; 
This labor’s but wastage of paper and ink, 

And into Sheol with himself it must sink!” 

It makes little difference how I may go; 

But slight variation these charges will show. 

So let us be cheerful and freely admit 
Expenses will eat up my very last bit. 

Well, if cheap as the dirt, or high as the sky, 

Ho one in the world loves designs more than I! 

You talk like a dummy, or like a blockhead; 

May anyone love them when once he is dead ? 

Remote in a churchyard, how many will see 
The marble slab you would make ready for me? 
Though cross and crown that memorial emboss, 

A race would be staged between dust and the moss; 
And, what though concealed in some little nook, 

Ho worse fate can follow this poor, little book. 

But, should your work fail or abundantly thrive, 
Endeavor to start on the task while alive! 

And we are assured, whatever is said, 

That we cannot give service when we are dead. 

The slick, philanthropic millionaires propose 
Of tainted accumulations to dispose— 

They lie awake many nights, study a plan; 

In dreams, while wide awake, many a scheme scan; 
They go to a bright lawyer, who draws up the will; 
Sweet musings of goodness their purged spirits thrill; 


30 


Are laying up treasures in Heaven above! 

Their hearts are o’erflowing with faith, hope and love. 
Years go by apace, the hour of death is come, 

A panic strikes them—it is the great Lord’s bomb! 

The life has been brief, the race so quickly run; 

A knock at the door—their work is not begun! 

They would draw on Heaven’s bank, and say, “Dear Lord, 
While on earth we read, in your most Holy Word, 

That he who gives to the poor lendeth to Thee, 

And what has been bestowed Thou will guarantee.” 

The Lord, while looking on their nakedness, will say: 

“You brought nothing to the world—took naught away! 
And death, not your own will, did that hand unclasp, 

And cause those millions to escape from its grasp! 

There’s nothing to your credit! The note’s now due— 
You’ll not get the crown that was purchased for you! 
Where’s the wedding garment? Why! your lamp’s gone 
out— 

This vessel’s empty; there is no oil about! 

Why get in the wrong line, why faced the wrong w r ay? 
Commands have no force—it is too late to pray! 

You cheated all the day—lay awake all night 
Devising a plan to beat a luckless wight; 

You have been a slacker, are on the black list; 

Your service we no longer need—you’re dismist!” 


THE START. 

The wandering savage saw things in his walks, 

And made mention of them in cursory talks. 

His son and successor would add facts anew, 

And thus, step by step, the catalogue grew— 
Widening, ever rising, from age to age, 

While broad’ning and deep’ning, with times chang¬ 
ing page. 

We stood by the tide that flows on to the seas, 

That correlates the shoreless eternities; 

We saw something float on the breast of the stream, 
And eagerly grasped the prize to redeem. 

It looked very much like the snakes w r e had seen 
On brown, dusty highways and in pastures green. 
My father informed me that this letter S 
Is seldom, if ever, companionless; 


31 




All of this species might easily he found 
If I, with patience, should search around; 

These letters arranged would furnish the key 
To open the door of learning to me— 

These, placed in position, would knowledge convey, 
And drive ignoramus, a demon, away! 

We’ve stood by that stream, in sunshine and rain, 
With more or less diligence sought to obtain 
A few of the pebbles that lined the broad shore, 
Or driftwood that floated, of which there was store. 
By mind’s tympanum these fancies were heard; 
These musings to paper will now be transferred. 
Ours but the arrangement on table and shelf; 

No creature of this show was made by itself! 

He, who copies, no great credit should claim— 

For authors, not apes, grace the temples of fame! 
In few hard places, to words with age hoary, 

We merely gave an additional story. 


THE ASCENT. 

We start in with the alphabet A, B, C, 

And go on at a snail’s pace to X, Y, Z— 

Before they have reached the last letter in line, 

The first is forgot by eight boys out of nine. 

The O, S and X are quite easy, of course— 

O is a ring, S a snake, X a saw-horse; 

The D is for pig-yoke and votes Democrat— 

No bright colored citizen ever makes that; 

While R is the ox-yoke, with one how let go— 

’Tis Republican, any black man may know; 

But when we arrive at the U and the V, 

We are lost in the maze of uncertainty. 

A-b abs; e-b, ebs; assiduity invite, 

While other combines rise as swarms on our sight. 

On this endless road, getting grim and grimmer, 

At last we are able to read the primer. 

But of all things that are taught, spelling’s the stuff! 
D-o-u-g-h is do and t-o-u-g-h is tuff. 

These four rules, we’re to observe—open our v’s, 

Dot our i’s, close our o’s and cross our t’s. 

To grasp the three R’s takes a quickwitted mind, 
Demanding some years of continuous grind. 


32 




The liberal arts we must closely pursue; 

And liberal sciences we must chase, too— 

Grammar, rhetoric, physics, geometry, 

With poetry, music, and astronomy, 

Require many a year of labor and care, 

These hard grades to surmount on high or low gear. 
And when at the last we become Ph. D., 

The top of the mountain, perhaps, we may see— 
The prospect’s sublime, and heavenly the air, 

With clouds at our feet the sky must be fair! 

The head packed with knowledge, all obstacles past, 
We cackle on gaining the summit at last; 

But, peaks upon peaks arise up to the sky— 

Old age has seized us; it is now time to die! 


PART II. 

INTRODUCTION. 

Brave Roosevelt, our “Teddy,” come back into power, 
Rule over our country, if but for an hour; 

And by your brave counsel that vision unfold 
That nerved our loved Lincoln ’mid perils untold! 

Oh, you w r ere the valiant, the noble and true, 

Who always stood up for the red, white and blue! 
Some weasel-word statesmen ruled over our land, 

With hearts in their mouths and in backbone no sand. 
Oh, well does their country this option now rue— 
Despite all we might say and all we could do 
To screw up their courage ’mid war’s wild alarms, 
Fear weakened their knees—made flabby their arms! 
Yes; we are a byword at home and abroad— 

A jest is our motto, “Our trust is in God!” 

“Don’t give up the ship!” from our record’s erased; 
“Oh, where is the foe?” from our song is effaced! 
Valley Forge, and Concord, no hurrahs inspire; 
Yorktown, and Cowpens, to oblivion retire; 

The “Bon Homme Richard,” and “Old Ironsides,” 
Are sunken—neglected—in mud and the tides! 

Why, “Uncle Sam” raves—Old Glory’s in dust; 

The sword’s in its scabbard, both covered with rust; 
Ho clarion announces our Fourth of July 
Violins and violas soft music supply! 


33 




PROTEST. 


Our Sergeant, “Moll” Pitcher, laughs—sure it was fun; 
The “Red Coats” at Monmouth did little but run. 

But “Old Rough and Ready,” and “Tippecanoe,” 

Give way to despair—are decidedly blue! 

Why, Hancock and Adams, with Franklin and Lee, 
Will blush, if but noticed in good company! 

The spirits of Marion and heroic Hale, 

In protest, re-enter the dark Stygian vale, 

Warren, with Putnam, Allen, Morgan and Wayne, 
Dejected, meander Elysian’s bright plain! 

Charles Carroll of Carrollton—Maryland’s son— 

Will answer no longer to, of Carrollton; 

While Jefferson and Hamilton disagree 
On making the world safe for democracy! 

With Arnold, the traitor and foul renegade, 

Gehenna is marching in full-dress parade; 

The devils guffaw with counterfeit mirth, 

Their praises acclaiming the traitors on earth. 

But, Wells and McComas, of eighteen-fourteen, 

Are glad they are dead and escaped the sad scene; 

And Francis Scott Key, he of lyric renowned, 

Has turned in his grave with his face to the ground. 
Where is Santa Claus (that most lovable soul!) 

Why he’s with Doctor Cook—he’s at the North Pole! 


EXPLANATION. 

You beg the occasion of all this disgrace; 

Why falleth the tear that dishonors the face! 

We took up some swamp land—to dig a big ditch— 
The Atlantic, Pacific, in union to hitch. 

The country with fever and ague was dank; 
Stegomyiae by billions press rank on rank. 

It blocked the whole wide world the day it was made, 
And never had heard of plow, harrow or spade. 

Do you know a game sport, in second-hand biz? 

We’ll swap the whole quagmire for a wornout “Liz.” 

A few thousand acres of good Maryland earth 
Would fetch much more money than Panama’s worth. 
Colombia, essaying to drive a sharp trade, 

Refused every proffer that Uncle Sam made. 


34 




Mariana (tomorrow) ’mong “Rough Riders” not 
heard— 

They have so little use for such a slow word! 

Palaver to them a grievous vexation; 

Manan is cut short by swift annexation! 

The ditch scarce completed and bill about paid, 

With four hundred millions, young Jonathan made, 
Up steps old “John Bull” our Washington thrashed, 
And Commodore Perry on Lake Erie smashed, 

Whom Paul Jones lambasted in many a fight, 

Then England’s proud scarlet grew pale with affright. 
After Bennington’s battle doughty “Jack” Stark 
Shouts “Molly’s no widow, I’m gay as a lark!” 

At McHenry’s fort, “the bombs bursting in air, 

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 
there,” 

And “Old Hickory” Jackson hold Hew Orleans saved, 
The Star-Spangled Banner in triumph still waved. 

“I see,” said this bluffer, “the ditch is no toy, 

And too big a job for my brave little boy; 

I’ll run it,” says “John Bull”—our eagle’s in tears— 
Brave Roosevelt yet lives; we blush for our fears! 


COLOMBIA. 

Colombia, the misnamed, away to our south, 
With brazen effront’ry now opens her mouth; 

And this the most popular melody sung: 

“Our honor’s insulted, our pocketbook’s stung; 
Castilian blood flows through our brave hearts, 
And virtue, not golddust, abounds in these parts! 
Discussions on honor repay not one’s toil, 

But business is business since we struck oil. 

A few million dollars, if wisely expended, 

Makes honor’s breach to be happily mended.” 
That pigmy of heart and dwarfish of soul 
Cries, “Give back our Eden your President stole!” 
And never with living and never ’mong dead 
Can be found the brave boys by Bolivar led! 
Stand up, poor Indian, lift up your right hand; 
How tell us how white men got your native land! 
“With gunpowder strong, like thunder it rolls; 
With firewater stronger they ruined our souls. 


35 




Tor lust of tlie golddust despoiled our fair strand— 
No mother was sacred in that ravaged land! 

The baby unborn from the mother was torn; 

The infant in arms far better unborn; 

They slaughtered the father, made slave of the son; 
Dishonored the daughter—My God, this was done! 
Recall not the story; my heart strings are wrung, 
With horror affrighted, and frozen my tongue!” 
Our lawyers report the title’s much tainted; 
Conditions far worse than ever were painted; 

That many more wrongs are being concealed 
Than even the records existent revealed; 

Yet, dastards at will the brave Colonel defame, 
Dishonor would cast on our Theodore’s name; 

And jackals, hyenas and coyotes, ’tis said, 

Are growing more ghoulish—“Our Teddy” is dead! 


PART III. 

THE HEAVENS. 

The Sun’s in despair, the Moon hides her face; 
Venus and Mars feel the sting of disgrace! 
Mercury, the herald, in fright has run 
For safety’s assurance next to the Sun! 

On Jupiter’s face appears a rainbow, 

’Tis draped in black crepe—it surely looks so! 
The rings around Saturn—so runs the tale— 
Begin to look most suspiciously pale; 

Uranus, grown more eccentric, they say, 

Has lengthened his night and shortened his day. 
From old Neptune, so removed from our sight, 
We look for bad news ’most any clear night. 

In belt of Orion, that star-decked sword, 

Is flashing less bright, the savants record. 

And nebulae remote, in heaven’s blue, 

Are fading from sight and lost to our view! 
Taurus, the Bull, by the Pleiades wooed, 

Retires to “innocuous desuetude.” 

Bold Cancer, the Crab, has lost his hard shell; 

To honor and arms now bids a farewell. 

And Pegasus, the horse, that bards inspired, 

Has ceased to function—been paid off and fired. 
The weeping Niobe we still may see— 

The only thing left that’s in “normalcy.” 




ORACLES . 


Omens and portents appear by tbe score; 

They never were seen in couples before. 

The augurs and sibyls are up in the air— 

This matters little; they always were there! 
The birds in flight are very erratic, 

And entrails of beasts speak nothing emphatic. 
The bacchanal saturnalian’s foul fad, 

With Bacchus himself has gone to the bad; 
Pluto and Porsephine, near Nysa, are queered 
Aesculapius, M. D., has disappeared. 

Old Mercury’s flag, at Pharoe’s half-masted; 
And Faunus, at Rome, is some flabbergasted. 
Abse with Clarus and Patriae, in distress, 

Have sent out the signal, reading S. O. S. 
Dodona for months no radios has sent; 
Patara’s for sale and Fortuna’s for rent. 
Amphilocus has, for the past year or so, 

Been featuring the moving picture show. 
Telmessus is not like the house on a rock; 
Didyma and Trophinus are comrades in hock. 
A garage is now where Ismenium stood, 

And Delos looks like ’twere deserted for good. 
Apollo, at Delphi, is bothered a bit; 

At Olympia, Jove already has quit! 


THE HEROES. 

Strong Hercules, who could Hesperides rob, 
Would now, we feel certain, fall down on the job. 
To cleanse^ in one brief day, the Augean stalls, 
For thousands of weaklings like Hercules calls. 
Prometheus, stealing the fire from the sky; 
When torn by the eagle, would never say die; 
Though whole is his liver and dead is the gier; 
Shows no inclination to monkey with fire. 
Bellerophon, mounted on Pegasus, slew 
Chimera, which was the correct thing to do; 

But cursed be the gadfly which stung Pegasus-- 
The winged horse, that gives inspiration to us! 
Medusa, the Gorgon, by Perseus outguessed, 
Demands with strong words a decisive last test; 


37 




But rattled is Perseus, who swears he’d prefer 
To fight all Gehenna than one hag like her. 

A maiden on billows of anguish is tost; 

Her cotton was rotten, her Theseus lost; 

The Minotaur ground his crushed body to pulp 
And swallowed his carcass with one little gulp. 

No Remus and Romulus she-wolves will own, 

The Sisyphus, trickster, still works on the stone. 
Laocoon, strangled by circling snakes, dies, 

And Oedipus, maddened, tears out his own eyes. 

The Argonaut Jason would leave if he could; 

But Bacchus and bacchanals left us for good. 

Aenseus the Trojan is sailing the sea; 

Both Castor and Pollux are dead as can be. 

Leander, the lover, in death lies a-cold, 

And Midas the Phrygian has turned into gold. 

Brave Diomedes looks a pitiful soul, 

Arions no longer their dithyrambs roll. 

The Grecians are pompously strutting around, 

And Hector, the hero, can nowhere be found; 

If searching the wide world, you’ll search but in vain, 
Por Troy’s great defender in combat was slain. 
Achilles was found in the ladies’ work room, 

Bedecked in a woman’s most dainty costume; 

Por Paris, the lover of Helen, with vim, 

Was out with his how—he was looking for him! 

Old Ajax, w T ho once put the lightning to shame, 

Is now, as a warrior, decidedly tame. 

What matter if war-clouds he distant or near, 

Old Ajax is found away back in the rear! 

Ulysses, the prudent, whose words were so brave, 

Has been, for a long time, as still as the grave; 
Despised by his own dogs—the most faithful hound 
Will hang his head, shamefaced, when master’s 
around! 

Malanion, swift Atalanta outran; 

He shows no footprints of a marathon man; 

Each breath he exhales we regard as his last— 

The apples of gold into dollars have past! 

An Orpheus, whose music could move rock and tree, 
Despairing, was parted from Eurydice; 

Now, losing all cunning, he says he’s more fit 
To migrate to Hades and lyre in it! 


38 


THE NATIONS. 

On Washington’s name there is silence intense, 

In terror lest England should take an offense; 

“Bill” Kaiser, of Berlin, our doughboys derides, 

And Deutschland, with laughter, is sore on both sides. 
The Froggies of Gallia, in chorus, proclaim 
This faux pas disgraces brave Lafayette’s name. 

From Shantung of China to Nippon, the Jap 
Is smiling serenely—he’s holding down Yap! 

Italia’s emotions disfigure her form; 

Her Colon’s bold soul rides anew on the storm. 

The red flag of Russia—her emblem of might— 

Is gay to see blushing our blue and our white. 

The shades of St. Patrick, and Brian Boru, 

The shamrock of Erin with tear-drops bedew, 

The Valhalla vikings, such weaklings contemn, 

For Norseland was never dishonored by them. 

And “William the Silent,” weeping Netherlands 
pride, 

But vainly has suffered, more vainly has died! 

The Ottoman Sultan—unspeakable Turk— 
Confidingly swears a most treacherous work. 
Timbuctoo’s black chief kicks high up his black toes 
In gleeful accord with more civilized foes. 

In darkest of Afric’, where Pygmies abide, 

The same jocund chorus cheers blithe eventide. 


PART IY. 

THE BEASTS. 

The savage gorilla and fierce chimpanzee 
Are weak mollycoddles—about such as we! 

And even the ourang that lives in a tree 
Looks mockingly down on “The land of the free.” 
In African Congo the jolly baboon 
Is tickled to death, very merry his tune. 

Cathay’s fiery dragon—a sweet little elf— 

Is splitting with laughter in spite of himself. 

The palseotherium—a hoary old gent— 

Is little concerned with this recent event. 

An old land tortoise that has seen many days 
Sings snatches of antediluvian lays. 

The elephant, the rhino, hippo and whale, 

In turn each recites a more hair-raising tale. 


39 




The ’gators, crocodiles, the swordfish and shark, 

By thousands and millions for safe shores embark. 
The tallest marsupial in vain gets a hump, 

So nervous and weak that he barely can jump. 

In races primordial, awake or asleep, 

This kangaroo took many miles at a leap. 

Jumped over the mountains—no matter how high— 
His limits were only the earth and the sky. 

The lion and tiger are noticed to quail, 

Display less of their teeth and more of their tail. 
The lion, the leader of beasts was reckoned; 

The tiger, if not first, a close good second. 

Like autocrats, always their countrymen ruled; 

No wise apes with them ever monkeyed or fooled. 
The ursus horribilis show r s dejection, 

And wild cats of Rockies caught this infection. 

But backs that in war times made cats look taller 
Are now in reverse and their tails are smaller. 

“Old Grizzly” at one time a valorous beast, 

His name was on all tongues from west to the east; 
His courage and paw bade all wise men he wary, 
For fear was not found in his dictionary. 


THE HORSE. 

In the days of old Job, in Uz of the East, 

The horse was a very remarkable beast. 

He turned not aside from the glittering spear; 

Nor saw, smelt, heard, felt or tasted a fear. 

He pawed in the valley, ha! ha’d! in battle; 

The quiver ’gainst him but vainly did rattle. 

“He swallowed the ground with fierceness and rage”; 
We doubt not that he w T as the talk of that age. 

He smelt the battle, his neck clothed with thunder; 
Still mocking at fear—the horse was a wonder! 

The captains may shout and may glisten the shield; 
The trumpets may sound—not an inch will he yield. 
But times are different; we know this, because 
His ha! ha’s! are now weak, and feeble his paws. 
“Whenever my old horse went over the hill, 

He always got scared at the whippoorwill.” 

We could hear this witch in the wild woods sing— 
Each elf in the circle, each witch in the ring. 

“Cutty sarks” in chorus go round, round, round, 

The frightened horse’s hoofs go pound, pound, pound. 
40 




We urged him, we scourged him, exhorted with tears, 
And showed him the folly of fantastic fears. 

Enthused him, excused him, recalling, of course, 

This is not a homo, hut only a horse. 

We coaxed him, we hoaxed him, but without avail— 
For down went his head and lower went his tail! 

We fed him, we bled him, doctored him in vain— 

So rusty grew his coat and scant grew his mane, 

We’d roast him, we’d toast him, mustard plasters 
make; 

Give him carminatives for his stomach’s sake. 

We’d rub him and scrub him, always neat and clean; 
The grass was ever luxuriantly green. 

We cheered him, we deared him with exquisite art; 
But crushed was his spirit and broken his heart! 

We blessed him, caressed him, with tenderest care; 
Mentioned him often at our family prayer. 

We boo’d him, we shoo’d him, sowed the salt around, 
To foil the witches and make him sane and sound. 

We woo’d him, coo’d him—tried ev’ry art of love; 
Called him “Mammy’s darling turtle dove.” 

We hugged him, we snugged him, filled his rack with 
hay; 

Smoothed down his pillows and wiped his tears away. 
We joshed him, kiboshed him, with consummate skill; 
He’s down at the mouth, his tears are falling still! 
We’d ret him, we’d sweat him, prescribed ipecac, 

Put porous plasters on the small of his back; 

Adjured him, assured him health he could find— 
Accept Christian Science—’tis all in the mind. 

We’d pet him, coquette him, sing a sweet love song; 
He sighs: “’Tis useless!”—he’ll not be with us long. 
Coerced him, we nursed him, bought him rare titbits, 
And gave him to suckle the sweet sugar teats. 

We sissed him, we kissed him, we said: “My dear son, 
Why not be a Roosevelt or a Washington?” 

’Twas fruitless, ’twas bootless, the sad, weirdsome 
tones, 

At first in his ears, got at last in his bones! 

Lost is his courage, all his snap and his vim 
The old whippoorwill got the best of him! 

His ears and his bones now mingle in the dust 
Of the long, long trail—and follow on we must! 


41 


THE DOG . 

We’d like to say something befitting the dog, 

But freely confess that our mind’s in a fog; 

Whoever attempts to make sport of old Tray 
Combines a hard task with the poorest of pay. 

He shooed out the chickens, the ducks, and the geese; 
He acted as watchman, as guard, and police. 

He got our newspaper at earliest dawn, 

And drove oif the hogs that would root up our lawn; 
Around the cupboard was expected to hang 
When “Old Mother Hubbard” the dinner bell rang. 
We gave him a morsel and patted his head; 

He lay down on his side and played he was dead— 

We all bowed our heads and said: “Let us now pray!” 
More reverent no other than Old Hog Tray. 

He guarded the sheep and brought up the old cow; 
Stood up on his hind legs and said a “bow-wow!” 

Was leagued with the household and stood by the farm; 
He answered for fire and burglar alarm. 

Boys, who could not float, tread water or swim, 
Plunged in over their heads when they were with him. 
He sought the pet lamb that had wandered away; 

Was handsome and faithful, was gallant and gay. 

He stood up to beg and when hurt he would run 
By putting down three and carrying the one; 

Because his forefather had done it, ’tis said, 

He turned many times while making his bed. 

He’s got one bad habit, though otherwise hale, 

Between his hind legs seeks to bury his tail. 

We’ve tried ev’ry art this new habit to down— 

We threatened, encouraged, with smile and with frown. 
The weird explanation that we always got: 

I’m hoodooed by something, but I don’t know what! 


THE HOG. 

When I was a small boy there was a trained hog 
That set the Bel Air Market lot all agog. 

Why, tricks more in number this rooter could show 
Than Houdin was ever expected to know. 

At reading and writing got highest of marks; 

At eucher and poker beat all the card sharks! 

In sideshows at circus this very same pig 
Won many a dollar at some thimblerig. 

42 




Bucolics came ’round and no cops within view, 

The shell game yielded him a quarter or two. 

By writing the year when you first saw the light, 

Your age he would guess—yes; every time right! 

The number of years in your age you would spell, 

The year of your birth he right quickly would tell. 

In races with greyhounds, a goat and a horse, 

Got first every time by cutting the course. 

You say every word of this tale’s a lie— 

For truth of each word I am ready to die! 

Did I see it? Well, no; but I will be bio wed 
If this is not what the big billboards all showed! 

All boys of the country, and some from the town, 
With wide open mouths stand loitering aroun’; 

The girls, when not giggling, are looking lovelorn— 
They suck on a lemon and eat their popcorn. 

“But show me the pig that can do tricks today— 
Many thousands of dollars for him I’ll pay! 

To keep him from rooting at will I propose 
To put a stout ring in the tip of his nose; 

I’ll blacklist him—in case he ever should stray, 

He’ll not find employment for many a day! 

I’ll earn my white bread in the sweat of his face; 
Spend winters at Palm Beach or some other nice place; 
In summer to Newport or mountains resort, 

To pass a season in pleasureable sport. 

What right in the law has this muzhik to squeal; 

Or call for showdown, and an honest square deal ? 

Be quiet, you thankless, ungrateful old lob! 

I own your body, don’t it go with the job? 

Stage one of your strikes, or a simple walkout, 

I’ve got a stout ring in the tip of your snout! 

Forget this stubborn, unreasonable mood, 

Though acorns be plenty and rooting be good 
Controlling the tools without ever a doubt 
I’ll run this pig-sty with starvation’s wired knout! 
You get your wages, at evening and morn— 

I throw in your pen the rich yellow corn. 

To settle your fate needs but one small black ball; 
You root in my pen, or you’ll not root at all! 

But for my inherited money and brains, 

To sausage and wurst would be turned your remains. 
Now look to your task, or you’ll pretty soon^see 
There’s no place but hell for the Bolsheviki! 


43 


VARIOUS ANIMALS. 


The screechowl, the bullfrog, peacock and tomcat— 
Carusos galore could never eclipse that! 

The ram, as best “butter,” gets ev’ry first prize— 

Butts over all animals full twice his size; 

He’s so much better pleased, if they’re heavy and tall— 
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall!” 
Whenever he started to make the attack, 

If you had any sense you gave him the track. 

When he was appointed to carry the sphere, 

Resistance was useless, so why interfere? 

We see many signs of decay already— 

His head is shaky, his tail is more steady! 

We’ve written hut little of Thomas the Cat; 

We feel he deserves more attention than that. 

The fewer the words, the stronger the story— 

He’s out all the night, still wawling for glory. 

His wawls are less loud—not nearly so deep; 

More pleasant our dreams—more peaceful our sleep! 
You’ll not need a club many furlongs in length— 

The pole cat’s strong odor has lost all its strength! 

In days of “Ted” Roosevelt this smell was so strong 
You had needed a pole exceedingly long. 

Full well we remember that brightest spring day; 

Our hair was still black and whiskers not gray; 
Guileless our heart and wnder open our mind, 

Ere sad cognition to great caution inclined, 

We met this fellow—his tail gave one sweep— 

Say! Why do you laugh ? It is proper to weep! 

Eats from your hand, the pugnacious goat; 

The dog dares tread on the tail of his coat! 

Gone are those whiskers he cherished so long; 

Poor “Bill” is weaker, his smell is less strong! 

The wolf, when in packs, the bison o’erthrew, 

Is proud now of a jackrabbit or two. 

Beheaded snapper cares not a blest hit; 

Though dead for hours, he’s unconscious of it. 

Fates may oppose him, conditions may frown— 

He’ll never say die till Old Sol goes down! 

Should you doubt any word of this story, 

And wish to obtain fame, if not glory, 

Put your toe within a foot of his head— 

You’ll think yourself dying, possibly dead! 


44 


’Coon and ’possum, if anywise limber, 

Left last week for Sequoia’s tall timber; 

Diseased decrepits dodge death’s dreaded doom— 
Tbe rich have good seats, tbe poor—standing room! 
His shadow the ground hog, seeing at noon, 

Sought winter quarters while yet it w T as June; 

Has dug himself in quite deeply, we fear; 

But hope he will get to China next year— 

By latest report was headed that way; 

His aim and purpose is merely hearsay. 

Norwegian rat sighs, oh, why did I roam? 

I’m the prodigal son—I’ll go ’way back home! 


PART V. 

THE BIRDS. 

THE EAGLE. 

The eagle, that soared in empyrean hight, 

Alas! is now seen with foul buzzards alight! 

Tail feathers all gone—his talons are elipt; 

He looks like a bird in a mud-puddle dipt! 

Bereft of his courage, despair in his eyes, 

The eaglets are hungry—we hear their faint cries. 

His offspring, disgusted, have fled his embrace; 

Bor never before was beheld such disgrace. 

His strong claws and beak have forgotten their force; 
The wife of his bosom has got a divorce. 

This monarch once built his retreat in the cloud, 
Tempestuous winds beat and the mists enshroud. 

With thunders and lightnings his matins were rung; 
With darkness and tumult his vespers were sung. 
Aurora would shed her light over, the earth— 

His aerie was chosen the land of its birth. 

With garments illumined with heaven’s own light, 

In gold she arrayed the undraped mountain height; 
With brow that reflects the sun’s earliest ray, 

Jocund morn, fair maid, sprang aglow into day; 
What eye was the first its delight to confess. 

What voice was the foremost that joy to express. 
When Apollo in chariot mounted on high, 

With transcendent glory emblazoned the sky, 


45 




No eye save the eagle’s the dazzling sunlight 
Could bear with contentment and face with delight. 
On his widespread pinions the Roman tides rose; 
In this name of might Gallia vanquished her foes. 
Why should not the newest, the Star of the West! 
Our America! be—the brightest—the best? 

It should be! It could be! It would be, my son! 
Were each leader a Roosevelt or a Lincoln! 


THE ROOSTER. 

The last hope of the “Wets” the dust has bit; 

Has made his last crow—his last home-run hit. 

He knew all the ropes, from A down to izzard; 

His heart was strong and healthy his gizzard; 

Was firm on his legs, was trained to the minute; 

Long were his spurs—of course, he would win it! 

In battle one day had killed a huge hawk— 

In fact, he was known as the “cock of the walk!” 

Had all the fine points—was long pedigreed; 

The list of his victims took much time to read. 

His comb was cut, his tail was snugged, 

His wings w^ere dipt, his face was mugged; 

His hack was broad, his blood was game, 

His beak was sharp—Barleycorn his name! 

The rummies regard the battle as won, 

And give odds on Barleycorn, ten to one. 

But long was the fight—the pace was too hot; 

The “Pride of the Drys” found “John’s” weakest spot. 
Flapt farewells forever for friend, for foes, 

He rolled on his back and turned up his toes! 

This rooster, we know, without the least doubt, 

Is not only down, but also is out! 

The “Wets” lift up a lugubrious howl, 

And mingle with curses “foul! foul! foul!” 

No pullets crowd ’round him to feel his muscle, 

And say you gave him a pretty good tussle. 

No hens now kiss him and say, “You sweet honey, 
Deserve the belt as well as the money!” 

Fame is fickle and we find to our sorrow 
We’re Fitzsimmons today—dead tomorrow! 


46 




VARIOUS BIRDS. 


The goose and the swan fly exceedingly high, 

Appear as dark freckles in heaven’s blue sky; 

But slow in their movement and wearied their tones, 
Their honk is too feeble for our audiphones. 

Old Polly not one of your crackers desires; 

Has some words on her tongue, some fire in her eyes. 
The snowbird ’mid storms sings his chic-a-dee-dee; 
He’s not half so blithe as he seemeth to be. 

The jackdaw is able to say caw-caw-caw; 

He’ll soon change his ditty to tra-la-la-la! 

Cock robin was slain by dandy cock sparrow; 

Unbent is that bow and broken that arrow. 

Though decent interment his faithful friends gave, 
We’ve never ceased weeping in grief o’er his grave! 


THE NIGHTINGALE. 

The nightingale, whose art the flute could excel, 

Has sought wooded glen and the shadowy dell. 

Her voice, once so cheerful, now fraught with distress; 
Her refuge and rest is the wild wilderness. 

The flowery meadow for her has no charm; 

The gracious sunshine she regards with alarm. 

But oft in the dusk of the evening’s shade, 

In bowers of ease by the briar-rose made, 

That voice we have treasured, in days now long gone, 
When eve was at close and our life was at dawn. 

That place in the young heart was ever secure; 

Ho sound more delightsome, no welcome more sure. 
Though snuff-brown the jacket and quiet the vest, 

With wonderful taste your fair figure is drest. 

Why, with gay colors, that sweet songstress bedight, 

That pours out her soul of song through the long nighc 
Why should not her spirit with merriment bound? 

Why should not her hills and her valleys resound? 

Dear Philomel! tell us the reason, the why, 

The wherefore, the fountain, the stream, the supply. 

Be not terror-stricken, but banish your fear; 

Please give us the news we are anxious to hear! 

“The glints of the diamond in earth’s fires arise, 

The tints of the rainbow in heaven’s wet eyes; 

It seems less befitting to sing than to weep, 

Where nights are so long and the darkness so deep. 

47 




BOB WHITE. 


When writing a tale or serving a dinner, 

From gourmand or belles-lettres source, 

As connoisseur or as callow beginner, 

We keep the dessert for last course. 

Perhaps you will think we’ve forgotten Bob White 
There’s one more guess coming to you— 

Or with malice prepense have given a slight, 

Not the first or second is true. 

We do not seek any conditions to mask; 

M. Quail may be no F. F. V., 

Yet doing “Bob” justice is no easy task, 

Though classed as a W. J. B. 

When it comes to archness and masterful ruse, 

We will with no others hobnob, 

But match him against any bird you may choose— 
Bet dollars to doughnuts on “Bob.” 

While other young birds, in their snug, downy nest, 
Are resting in quiet and ease, 

“Bob’s” offspring are running with wonderful zest, 
Whenever, wherever, they please. 

While getting a living at any grain stack, 

These embryo Bolsheviki, 

Carrying one-third of their shell on the back, 

Cry, buccaneers, imitate me! 

Yet lately a change has come over this brood— 

They tremble at any affright— 

Display great inclination to solitude, 

And hide both by day and by night. 

Recline in their nests, crying weakly for food, 
Though grain stacks be plainly in view; 

To slightest exertion may scarcely be wooed, 

We speak but the words that are true. 

Their knocking knees giving a tit for a tat; 

Ataxia, we know this for sure! 

And failing hearts giving a weak pit-a-pat; 

Angina, we’ve heard there’s no cure! 


48 


Gelatinous bills make very poor nippers; 

Soft toenails are in the same plight; 

Their delicate wings appear much like flippers, 
And poorly adapted for flight. 

The truth of this statement no one will deny; 

They would be more blessed if dead; 

It takes nine days’ hard work to open one eye— 
The worst yet remains to be said! 


PART VI. 

REPTILES, INSECTS, ETC. 

THE SPIDER. 

The spider was the world’s most famous spinner, 
When Eve was a saint and Adam no sinner. 

Epeira was expert at spinning, I ween, 

WEen our first relations appeared on the scene. 

And though at no time a beautiful fellow, 

In war never showed the least streak of yellow. 

No matter how long or how hard was the fight, 

His toe-nails held firm while his eye-teeth held tight. 
But lately evinces some signs of distress— 

His teeth will not stand masticatory stress. 

Examine his molars—a good skiagraph 
Will show a full third, if not a round half, 

Of grinders call for a speedy removal; 

In fact, they all meet X-ray’s disapproval. 

This Bigg’s disease, product of chronic neglect 
Of kidneys and mouth, will most surely affect 
Circulatory system. There’s one chance yet— 

Pull out all the dead ones and make a new set. 
Aesculapius, M. D., says: "Ah, fiddlesticks! 

Safety first always; cut out his appendix! 

A few hundred dollars remain in his clothes, 

And to see his insides, at least, I propose!” 

A small rusty nail merely scratches the heel; 

At that time a slight twinge of pain we may feel. 

A wound of this nature, involving no bone, 

Will heal in a few days—so let it alone! 


49 




Within forty-eight hours thereafter ’tis hot— 

Blood poison and tetanus are tommyrot. 

Professors are called, who gravely assured us, 

If one day delayed, they could not have cured us. 
They wash out the wound, use sponge, -water and soap, 
Prescribe curative salve bichloride and dope. 

If all things these surgeons advise us he true, 

The next time we’re wounded we know what to do. 
The doctors esteem the tinct. of iodine 
An excellent antiseptic medicine. 

Its only function—say whatever they may— 

Is to give nature a square deal and fair play. 

Its only purpose, after the last word is said, 

To slaughter the wounded and cremate the dead. 

Are we speaking of war? We are in a way— 

The troops are microscopic bacteria. 

The glutton swallows down a mass of gross food; 

It may he well ground, it may he unchewed. 

He now with assurance on leisure may call 
And cry out to the whole world—this ends it all! 
Whereas, prehension, mastication, unite 
Deglutition, digestion, absorption’s flight 
Of stairs reaching assimilation’s front door, 

Where processes are met more complex than before. 
Metabolism will either death or life give— 

If destructive, we die; if constructive, we live. 


THE FROG. 

Our old friend, the bullfrog, that sat on the bank, 
Cried: “Good-bye forever!” To bottom he sank. 

“I’ll take my departure while I’m still able; 

My fried corpse shall grace no eating-house table!” 

He had for a long time been on the qui vive, 
Perchance it were wiser to stay than to leave; 

Like Cato of old, great anxiety showed, 

And dreaded to travel the dark, lonesome road. 

The Roman, who lost his fat job at the crib, 

Would thrust a sword-point underneath his fifth rib; 
The Japanese tycoon, no whit more astute, 
Approached his death by hara-kiri’s sure route. 

The canny old Socrates, wisest of all, 

Chose lethal hemlock when he answered the call. 


50 



But Judas Iscariot, lost to each hope, 

Preferred as his “Jack Ketch” a portion of rope. 
The man of this era, whose last hope has fled, 

By pressing a trigger, blows off his own head! 

But some of the boobies, who yet are more dumb, 
Pour down in redundance, beer, whiskey and rum. 
The bullfrog considered these modes one by one, 
And finally asked us, “How can it be done? 

I have not a poison, no pistol, no sword, 

Hot even the tiniest portion of cord! 

For beer and light wines I might freely stand pat— 
The Eighteenth Amendment has overthrown that. 
We’ll stand here discussing these questions, I see, 
Till time and tide merge into eternity. 

The water, I am sure, is circumjacent, 

And water moreover is my element.” 

It was a foul act, a most desperate plan— 

We can pardon, a frog, but never a man! 

His bones, in the morass, we know, are at rest. 

We trust that his soul is most happy and blest! 


THE JUNE-BUG. 

The Troubadour June-bug is awfully bum; 

He sings like a humbug that lost its last hum. 

His stage presence held all the ladies entranced; 

The lights on his costume glistened and glanced. 

But singers, in public, to merit success 

Must show first-class voices as well as address. 

While giving encores, at ambition’s behest, 
Gotterdammerung shows the size of his vest. 

In old Trovatore it was mum-mum-mum-mum! 

The audience responded with bum-bum-bum-bum! 
But when, in Les Huguenots he struck that low E, 
The mirth of the rabble was painful to see. 

We noticed in Carmen the Toreador 
Was hooted and hissed after ev’ry encore; 

In one of the acts—herself in a rage— 

Miss Katy-did Carmen kicked him from the stage. 
The galleries hollored—one June-bug, they say, 
From out the backwoods thought it part of the play. 
Every one said he was really tough; 

A few thought Miss Katy a little bit rough. 
Rotten-egged one off day, the curtain was dropt, 

He was given a bath and the floor was mopt. 

51 




A VARIETY. 


The boa, the blacksnake, the python, maybe, 

So happy and blithe are now hugging the tree. 

The longest-tailed wog that disports in the bog, 
Disgraced, disappears from the bumps of the log. 
Amoeba, carefree as to concepts mental, 

Gives no two real raps—not one continental. 

The sociable cricket—a little bit shy— 

Has sought other regions—you need not ask why. 
She brightened the corner and kept all things neat, 
By every fireside had the very best seat. 

The firefly, that flits in the evening’s damp, 

Blew out her faint light and demolished her lamp. 
Among other reasons, gave this lame excuse— 
’Twas so weak as to be of but little use. 

The tumble-bug tried out a marathon race, 

But soon tumbled out, for too hot was the pace. 
The judges reported—receive it, who can! 

That tumble-bug, a sprinter, “also ran.” 

Chameleon and mantis and slug and snail, 

Now safety demands it, beat aeroplane’s mail. 

The ant in the sand hill, the worm of the earth, 
Shamefaced, abandon the land of their birth. 

The smallest of midgets, revealed in sunlight, 

Shakes our dust from her feet—forever good-night. 
The oyster and sponge say, “We’d rather not stay; 
But, tied down to rocks, we can’t get away.” 

The testy old w^asp has lost his last sting; 

He throws up the sponge and quits the squared ring. 
The boldest of hornets lost his last fight; 

His sun went down in obscurity’s night. 

Brave yellow-jacket has lost his last bout; 

Takes full count of ten—he’s squarely knocked out. 
He tried ev’ry blow known to the gymnast, 

Was scienced, clear-headed, foxy and fast. 

For many rounds stood the bumble-bee blow— 

The solar plexus lays any bug low. 

Alert in defense and strong in attack, 

Age is against him, he’ll never come back. 

Brave yellow-jacket! your mettle was great, 

But champions are always asked to give weight. 

You see it now, and all backers do, too, 

The old bumble-bee was heavy for you. 


52 


The grasshopper gives a dulcet love lay; 

He loafs all the week and Sunday’s God’s day. 
What shall we say of the gymnastic flea ? 

He’s not so supple as he used to be. 

When in condition, his legs in attune, 

He leaped clear over the top of the moon. 

To heat a bovine for him was a cinch, 

The cow lost out by the tenth of an inch. 

The lady-hug we will now introduce, 

Tor roach and housefly there’s no further use. 
All cooties of age, say twenty-one hours, 
Allegiance owe to some foreign powers. 

Will not enlist, if willy or nilly, 

Have no good blood for wretched corn willie. 
Object to conscription, will not enroll— 

Tor war is a terror to faintheart’s soul! 


BED-BUGS. 

Bed-bugs that never had tasted defeat 
Are often met in disordered retreat. 

The dead and dying encumber the ground, 

And flight’s contagious where wanza abound. 
Bring up reinforcements they form enmasse, 
’Tis futile we use bichloride and gas. 

Make headlong retreat dig themselves in; 

We cover them up, it looks like a sin 
To see these heroes, the bravest and best, 
O’erwhelmed in battle, still biting, go West. 
Some spying peacemakers, approach our camp, 
Each wife a vixen, each maiden a vamp. 

“Ashes to ashes and dust unto dust,” 
Peacemakers are blest, but die these bugs must. 
There’s no race of bugs in all this wide land 
Against such fierce odds forever can stand. 
With ranks in panic, they fly like the chaff, 
Our hearts are callous—we jeeringly laugh. 
The wanza (bed-bugs) put up a great fight, 
Good-bye, little wanz, we bid you good-night! 




PART YII. 


JOHN BARLEYCORN. 

Oh, where is John Barleycorn, where does he dwell? 

The devil has got him, he’s stranded in hell! 

How near we may stray, or how far we may roam, 

“Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.” 

To regions below his exit was hurried, 

His form a shadow, his looks sad and worried; 

To come hack to U. S. his chances are slim, 

Amendment Eighteenth was the finish of him. 

He never again will our country harass, 

The Volstead Law handed to him the coup-de-grace. 
When “John” was still living, as yet above ground, 

Full fifty per cent, in his whiskey was found. 

His booze is now water, his bread is all dough, 

One-half one per cent, he’s unable to show. 

Rum, whiskey and wine, with the devil’s home brew, 

Are risky narcotics, we speak what is true! 

On champions of rum we placed a tight muzzle, 

This dope they may use, but never should guzzle. 

Perhaps you will urge, Christ turned water to wine, 

That’s poor reason for drinking rotten moonshine! 

Of wine of the nature He made—new or old— 

You safely may drink all your stomach will hold. 
Good-bye! corner grog shop; good-bye; beer saloon; 
Good-bye! beer and light wines; you’ll not come back soon. 
Touch—taste not—nor handle the poisonous stuff; 

Stop—look—listen! ought to be warning enough. 

Why should not purveyors of moonshine and beer, 

Be locked in a cell with the shovers of queer? 

The taverns and inns were like rat traps no doubt, 

So easy to get in, so hard to get out. 

It matters but little how fast or “hell bent,” 

That bright day in autumn the Pine Tree State went, 
When casting its vote for “Old Tippecanoe” 

With Governor Kent and for John Tyler, too; 

But blest when it threw old John Barleycorn out, 

And started to travel the heavenly route; 

It caused a great rift in the clouds to appear, 

And, praised be the Lord, now, the whole sky is clear. 
Unbounded our pleasure—Amen! our refrain; 

Our joy’s without measure—our flag’s without stain. 
With three sheets to windward, the product of ale, 

Oh, many fine fellows went down in the gale. 

54 




The old razzle dazzle was “Johnnie’s” best hunch; 
He’s beat to a frazzle by Anderson’s punch. 

We heard—I believe it—that Pussyfoot’s eye 
Most surely will make wet Old England go dry. 

To name all the heroes would need much more space 
Than we are permitted to use in this place, 

But cannot forbear John G. Woolley to name— 

So sane, alert, courteous, trustworthy and game. 


BARLEYCORN’S WA TERLO 0. 

“John” is driven out of Georgia, Virginia, and Maine— 

In Arkansas and Tennessee resistance was but vain. 

The Carolinas freed from rum now join the glad refrain, 
America is dry! 

Hurrah! for North Dakota and for Colorado, too, 

To prohibition Oregon and Washington are true; 

While Indiana highly blest has hidden booze adieu, 
America is dry! 

Put Arizona on our list, her rum no more enthralls, 

And Mississippi’s mighty flood has cleansed her Augean 
stalls, 

But West Virginia’s pseans echo from her mountain walls, 
America is dry! 

South Dakota and Montana saw “John Barleycorn’s” 
defeat, 

Nebraska and Alaska heard “John” sounding out retreat. 

In Michigan “Bill” Sunday made “John’s” overthrow 
complete, 

America is dry! 

Maryland, My Maryland! put the Amendment through. 

The “Drys” of Texas and Vermont are of the truest blue. 

The “Blue Hen’s Chicken,” Delaware, showed “Wets” what 
he could do, 

America is dry! 

New Hampshire is the Granite State, New York is the 
Empire, 

They put two punctures in the tread of Barleycorn’s spare 
tire. 

Ohio and Kentucky put “John’s” fat into the fire, 

America is dry! 


55 




Louisiana cast out booze, with pleasure, years ago; 

Both Wyoming and Illinois threw overboard the foe, 

And Pennsylvania and Utah decided “John” a woe, 
America is dry! 

Wisconsin, Massachusetts and Missouri smote the pest, 
New Jersey and our Oregon responded to each test; 

And Minnesota sought the fray with appetite and zest, 
America is dry! 

Oklahoma’s flag is stainless, Alabama’s right at last. 

Iowa’s nightmare, thank the Lord! is over now and past; 
But Kansas, canny Kansas, smote this insect with the blast, 
America is dry! 

Nevada is the Silver State, California the Gold, 

New Mexico and Florida as slaves would not be sold. 
Rhode Island and Connecticut are still outside the fold, 
America is dry! 


BARLEYCORN’S BOOM. 

Days agone the times were breezy, 

I was young and money easy, 

My hale appetite surceasy, 

Yes, surceasy, with old ryes. 
Barleycorn had not then croaked, sir. 
Ribbons white were (ha! ha!) joked, sir, 
We were with hail fellows yoked, sir; 
Yoked, sir, we were happy guys! 

We used all the booze we could, sir. 
Pumpernickel, if we would, sir, 

Acted as all good friends should, sir, 
Drank the Schiltz beer, not moonshine. 
But old lager is forgotten. 

Prohibition is begotten, 

And our liberties geshotten, 

Shotten is the old beer stein! 


56 




Why are we so horned and hacked, sir, 
By this hellish Volstead Act, sir? 

We should he most surely backed, sir, 
Backed by true Americans. 

Ev’ry mother’s son and daughter 
Is expected to drink water. 

All our rights are marked for slaughter, 
Slaughter, by the “Puritans.” 

What! am I a mollycoddle ? 

Is there no wit in my noddle ? 

We have paid out our last doddle, 
Doddle, doddles, how they go! 

I’m against the “Dry” Amendment! 
Though “John” now is the defendant; 
He will soon be the ascendant! 
Ascendant, say yes or no! 

Now, sir, listen, don’t you get me? 

I will tell you, if you’ll let me; 

You should be so glad you met me, 

Met me, in this fateful hour. 
Hallelujahs! should be given, 

Barleycorn to hell is driven, 

The last chain of rum is riven, 

Kiven, rum has lost its power. 

Wayne B. Wheeler is a bright one, 

His opinion is the right one, 

Each law by him a pig tight one, 
Piggish tight and bullish strong! 

Our “Bill” Anderson’s pinch hitter, 

Our George Crabbe is not a quitter, 

Our good friends the “Wets” are bitter, 
Bitter, mournful is their song. 

“John” can’t show a continental, 

Not a tattered regimental, 

He’s no longer sentimental, 

Sentimental as to brews. 

Swigs the swilly schnapps and slops, sir, 
Mixes poison with the hops, sir, 

Nor at home-brew hog-wash stops, sir, 
Stops, sir, guzzling deadly booze. 


57 


Drink no more the poisonous beer, sir, 
Beason’s admonition hear, sir, 

And for prohibition cheer, sir, 

Cheer, sir, Barleycorn, by gum, 

Looks a broken sport, indeed he 
Is the worse for wear and weedy; 

Hocks his shoes, his socks are seedy, 
Seedy! Barleycorn’s a bum! 

Barleycorn still spits and splutters, 
Gnashes teeth and mutely mutters, 

Hot a single blessing utters, 

Utters oaths not loud, but deep. 

See him! there among the roasted, 
Seething hot and brownly toasted, 

Of his powers loud he boasted, 

Boasted while his victims weep. 

For not one fond farewell stayed he; 

For no parting kiss delayed he, 

But in desperation brayed he, 

Brayed and brayed and nothing more! 
Barleycorn appears right dizzy, 

Do you want to know where is he! 

See that wandering spirit ! ’tis he, 
Wandering, on the Stygian shore. 

Look not upon the wine when red— 

It but conceals the adder’s head 
And crawling, hissing serpent bred, 
Serpent bred in poison’s bowl. 

Take no chances with this sniper— 
They who play must pay the piper; 
Trust not, touch not, the vile viper, 
Viper ruining the soul. 

“Johnnie’s” eyes are red with crying— 
“Johnnie’s” never dead, but dying— 
“Johnnie’s” soul’s within him sighing, 
Sighing for the blessed light. 

Bed-bugs are so pleased to sight him, 
Lice and maggots never slight him, 

Fleas and jiggers scratch and bite him, 
Scratch and bite him, day and night. 


58 


There is for him no tomorrow— 

He can never hope to borrow 
Respite or relief from sorrow, 

Sorrow in complete torment. 

Friends he knew on earth deride him— 
Greater depths and -woes abide him— 
Drops of water are denied him, 

Him denied half one per cent. 

He is found among the slackers— 

Gets no encores from the claquers— 

Hor prescriptions from the quackers, 
Quackers of the M. D. breed. 

Parched his throat, his tongue is furry, 
Burning his insides? Yes, sir, he 
Has naught on his mind hut worry, 
Worry his eternal screed. 

“Johnnie’s” worried, wrecked, aweary, 
Tattered, tired, torn and teary, 

Dismal, desolate and dreary, 

Dreary, dry, disconsolate. 

Plucked and cowed now is this rooster— 
He’s no longer liquor booster— 

He don’t crow as once he used to, 

Used to, when he ran the state. 

He must eat his schnitz and nep, sir, 
Wanderluster in lockstep, sir, 

And with hall and chain be kept, sir, 
Kept, sir, from his deviltry. 

We can answer on the square, sir, 

He may squirm, but we don’t care, sir, 
He will be forever there, sir, 

There, sir, through eternity! 

“John” reminds us of Poe’s raven— 

Hot half washed and poorly shaven, 
Craven, crooked, crooked, craven, 
Craven, cursed forevermore! 

Let him wriggle, roast and rot, sir, 

A life sentence he has got, sir, 

See that you keep him right hot, sir, 
Hot, hot, hotter—evermore! 


59 


PART Till. 


A HYMN. 

My gracious Father! won by love, 

And nourished by thy grace, 

We haste our gratitude to prove, 

Content in thy embrace. 

Before our infant lips could frame 
The praise of God to sing, 

We were assured in Jesus’ name 
Beneath his shelt’ring wing. 

Thy mercy youthful steps shall stay, 

Thy love alway endure; 

When deep’ning shades end life’s brief day, 
That refuge he secure. 

For none who put their trust in Thee 
The stain of sin shall know; 

The blood of Christ abounding, free, 

Has made it white as snow. 

He chasteneth whom He loveth most, 

And no son will confess 

Before the bright angelic host 
In proud self-righteousness. 

But be thou patient, oh, my God! 

With me thy erring child. 

May I accept the chast’ning rod 
As an endearing smile. 

Thus faith shall crown my life with joy, 
While Satan tempts in vain; 

Thus love my ev’ry power employ 
And hope my age sustain. 


60 


COLUMBIA. 


Columbia, beloved! in glory arrayed, 

Her honor unsullied shall ne’er be betrayed. 

Whose mission is holy; whose flag is unfurled— 

The Star of the West, the Pride of the World. 

Columbia, benignant; a wonderful friend— 

The bards tell her story, the heroes defend; 

All nations acclaiming, with heartfelt delight, 

That mercy is wedded with valor and right. 

Columbia, courageous! though despots conceive, 

And tyrants imagine her hurt to achieve; 

With firmness undaunted to battle we go; 

“By right not by might,” overwhelming the foe. 

Columbia, victorious! with ensign in hand 
And Liberty’s torch to enlighten the land, 

The slave breaks his fetters—his heart stirs anew; 

For over his head floats the red, white and blue. 

Columbia, triumphant! when war’s dread alarm 
Subsides, and sweet peace sleeps upon his right arm— 

Her foes, e’en though vanquished, with praises proclaim, 
Her might is unbounded and just is her fame. 

Columbia, resplendent! what glories arise! 

The hope of the earth and the bride of the skies! 

The stars of the heavens thy battles shall fight, 

The moon in her splendor, the sun in his might. 

Columbia, heroic! with victory crowned, 

For valorous exploits and mercy renowned; 

In war like the eagle, in peace like the dove, 

We offer affection, devotion and love! 

Columbia, immortal! illustrious renown 

Her sons through all ages shall wear as a crown- 

increasing in glory, the isles are its gems, 

Adorning the fairest of earth’s diadems. 

Columbia, my country! my heart’s only home, 

My spirit ne’er sighs from thy portals to roam. 

Our God is our refuge, our fortress and power, 

Our buckler and shield—our defender and tower! 

61 


TO COL. THEODORE ROOSEVELT. 

(Composed in the main during Campaign of 1912.) 

Hurrah, for Teddy Roosevelt! 

We’re sure to win; 

Though the currents may oppose— 

The tides come in; 

Surge on, surge, they mount above 
To strike the stars; 

Now, with soft caress of love 
O’er shingly bars. 

Hurrah for Teddy Roosevelt! 

This is our cry; 

He’s the man our foes so dread; 

They look and fly; 

But they who stand and they who flee 
Alike despair; 

Never grafter’s face we see, 

While Roosevelt’s there! 

Hurrah for Teddy Roosevelt! 

Who can hut cheer? 

Let the people rule, all 
Machines to the rear! 

True Progressives loud proclaim 
These their mandates, 

Mollycoddles hide for shame 
With hyphenates. 

Hurrah for Teddy Roosevelt! 

The tried and true; 

Millions marching in our ranks— 

The “Boys in Blue” 

With “Boys in Gray,” merrily, 

The cause acclaim 
And spread abroad, cheerily 
Our leader’s fame. 

Hurrah for Teddy Roosevelt! 

For a square deal; 

Special privilege to none— 

Thou shalt not steal. 

Armageddon’s vale defend! 

Fight dauntlessly 
For our leader’s cause contend— 

’Tis equity! 


62 


Hurrah for Teddy Roosevelt! 

Why shed a tear? 

Other leaders may be dead, 
His spirit’s here. 

We follow on, we follow on 
The “Long, Long Trail”; 
Our fealty is his guerdon; 
He shouts, “all hail!” 


THE SKYLARK. 

The lark soaring sings; 

His melody rings, 

Enriching the splendor of morn; 
Illuming the sky, 

Night-revelers fly 

To starlight’s mysterious bourne. 

A-glitters the dew, 

With sparkles anew— 

Rejoicing at birth of a day; 
Beguiling the hours, 

Refreshing the flowers, 

Inviting the lark’s roundelay. 

From shadowy haze— 

A mystical maze— 

Melodious echoes arise. 

What mind may conceive, 

What faith will believe, 

The lark is awaking the skies? 

What bird of the plain, 

From mountain or main, 

From forest, from lakelet, from dells 
What bird of the air, 

Though blithesome and fair, 

In soaring or singing excels? 

Here hurricanes rage— 

With warrings engage, 

The thunder and lightning alarm. 
To fairy-land soar! 

Dismayings give o’er! 

Protected from danger and harm. 


63 




With skies ever bright, 

’Mid scenes of delight, 

Your melody gladly renew! 
There, sing us a song! 

Enliven the throng! 

We’ll cast loving glances at you! 


THE ROBIN. 

Oh, Eobin, dear Kedbreast, why stand in the cold, 

So wistfully gazing at me? 

There’s warmth in abundance across our threshold 
And oceans of pure sympathy. 

Why ask any question as how, when or where? 

Why aught of suspicion display? 

The banquet is ready, o’erflowing the fare, 

For this is the festival day. 

You’re welcome, thrice welcome, partake of the store, 
The table with bounty is spread; 

And be not so doubtful approaching the door; 

We’ll care for you living or dead. 

For what though the tempest may war from without, 
And fight hard an entrance to gain; 

Our windows are double; our walls firm and stout 
Make fiercest of onslaughts but vain. 

The smoke pouring forth from the chimney now shows 
The embers are faithfully stirred; 

The fire on our hearthstone with radiance glows; 

’Tis calling for you, bonny bird. 

You look as forsaken as Noah’s lost dove, 

With olive branch close to her breast. 

The latch-string you’ll find on the outside, my love, 
Make this cheerful cottage your rest! 


THE BLUEBIRD. 

Aurora, fair maid, to sleep lull the night! 

And Phoebus, awaken the day! 

The bluebird exults to herald the light, 
Diffusing its liveliest lay. 

With jaunty blue coat and dainty red vest— 
The colors that blend with the white; 
Sing, pretty bluebird! we love you the best, 
Your song thrills our souls wuth delight! 

64 






You’re chaste and genteel, bewitchingly fair, 

By nature exquisitely trained; 

A gentleman born, the bird debonair, 

To deeds of politeness ordained. 

When dogwood’s in bloom and violets start— 
Announcing the entrance of Spring; 

With sympathy’s touch to heal the bruised heart, 
You hasten on swiftest of wing. 

While warbling from boughs, where melody dwells, 
The love-song that Paradise gave; 

Oh, joy unalloyed! your tiny throat swells 
With trillings, so cheerful and brave. 

As soothing as mothers that lullabies sing, 

No note of the harp can excel; 

Sweet-sounding as bells of Shandon that ring 
Their message o’er mountain and dell. 

You sing, happy bird, your soul-stirring lay; 

Which oft near our dwelling is heard— 

No songster of earth more blithesome and gay; 
Our love to you, bonny bluebird! 


WINTER. 

Though, feather by feather, the airy snow falls, 
Most "surely, yet softly, the landscape enthralls. 

The freezing earth shivers, the clinging vine moans, 
The evergreen whitens, the sturdy oak groans. 

The pale hue of death is beheld all around, 

As blankets of snowflakes envelop the ground. 
Exquisite the method, though ghostly the sight, 

To bury the frozen in garments of white; 

But no greater power could “Jack Frost” ordain 
Than such potent slave to enlarge his domain. 
Bright daffy-down-dilly and crocus, in dreams, 

Feel touches of sunshine, hear purling of streams. 
The dewdrop and violet patiently doze 
Till Spring’s busy fingers their eyelids unclose. 
Forget-me-not’s soul in tranquillity sleeps; 

While trailing arbutus with eagerness peeps. 

The poet’s narcissus with ecstasy thrills; 


65 




And dreaming in slumber, decks lakelets and rills. 
The bee sips the honey, from blossoms derived, 

It gathered with patience last season, and hived. 
The crow in dismay raising clamorous caws! 

To densest of pine woods for comfort withdraws. 

The skylark and swallow in warm countries nest; 
While robin and bluebird ’mid orange groves rest. 
The Bolshevist “Bob White” to capital yields, 

And, facing starvation, to plutocrat kneels. 

While snowbird and sparrow to barnyards will flock, 
The eaglet, in cradles of tempests, will rock. 

The bright little chipmunk a refuge has found, 

And sleeps like old woodchuck in bed underground. 
The provident beavers are sheltered from harm, 

And cotton-tail bunnies in dugouts are warm. 

The squirrel in comfort now draws on the store 
Of nuts, which it gathered the Autumn before, 

The snowflakes, like mystical merry-go-rounds, 

Are loitering never for leaps or for bounds: 

While whirling and swirling they fall from on high, 
How dart to the earth, now return to the sky. 

Like fairy-land warriors, to battle they go 
In chariots of whirlwind, assailing the foe. 

By tempest o’ertaken, with darkness o’erspread, 

The snow seeks in vain where to pillow its head. 

The wild winds and flurries in playfulness dance, 
Quaint tracery of hillock and meadow entrance. 

As deep drifts in billowy surges enform, 

The voice of the north wind is heard ’mid the storm; 
While following fast in his chariot of snow, 

The blast of his trumpet re-echoing blow! 

From sable clouds, flying, the muttering rolls, 

The flash of the lightning high carnival holds. 

Like mighty Hiagara’s thundering roar, 

Like angry surge dashing on ocean’s stern shore, 

As noise of the battle when giants contrive 
’Gainst heaven’s artillery, wedges to drive. 

Till coated completely by boisterous hail, 

Armed cap-a-pie, glist’ning in ice-forged mail, 

The fence-posts, like loose-sheeted guardians, stand 
In ghostly array keeping watch o’er the land. 

Icicles, as ornaments, spangle the eaves, 

The tints of the opal bedeck shrubs and leaves. 
Wherever we gaze over mountain and plain, 

The rulers of winter omnipotent reign. 

66 


PART IX. 


Capitalism considers human life the least sacred 
thing it can find. During the “World” war capital 
was rewarded with interest-bearing bonds, free of 
all taxation and with perfect security. Labor was 
paid three time peace rates. The wealthy were 
undisturbed in enjoyment of their sumptuous 
palaces. The fighting boys were conscripted for 
death, and shipped oversea with as little consider¬ 
ation as cattle. With peace restored, the profiteer 
refuses to grant the fighter a small bonus. If you 
believe in justice, spealc out! 


THE OWL. 

A wise owl and I sauntered out one bright day, 

My comrade had great deal, I little to say, 

We knew for wisdom this bird’s reputation, 

And called on him for a brief explanation; 

Just why in a land giving milk and honey, 

One-half one per cent, had most of the money. 

The wise old bird opened much wider his eyes 
And looked in my face with most candid surprise. 

He cleared his throat, and delivering a hoot, 

Began to discuss the inquiry’s that’s moot. 

In days long ago antedating the Flood, 

When men were eternally thirsting for blood, 

He set out to end brute aristocracy, 

And make the world secure for democracy. 

He got him some blood-hounds and had them well drilled 
Their heads he patted and their stomachs well filled; 

He taught them in packs the alert stag to chase, 

And corner the boar in a suitable place. 

The dogs got the entrails and slept on the floor, 

If Bolshevistic, were kicked through the back door. 

We presently find that war-making nations 
Hold dominant interest in all corporations: 


67 






The priests and soldiers awed the meek of the world; 
Hired soldiers hurled darts,—priests anathemas hurled. 
If servants grow scant, and conditions apply, 

Start up a new war—bring in further supply! 

More tractable than hogs; should cause no surprise, 
They not only wrought, but kept clean their own stys. 
The barons and lords next promulgate their right 
To own everything that appears in sight. 

Who then does the work? Why, sure it’s a disgrace 
For gentry to live in the sweat of the face. 

Why, surely it honors the laboring man, 

Supporting in affluence one gentleman! 

If you do not like work and the world would see, 

Be Sancho and follow a Don Quixote! 

As capital is a result—not a cause— 

Ho money is working that reaches their .claws. 

Hot all combined fortunes of Gentile and Jew 
Can cause two blades to flourish where but one grew. 
Two elements should enter the worker’s pay— 

Exertion and need should possess equal sway; 

For why should the toiler, who drudges for four, 

Be fed as the slave, who is drudger for more? 

If this be sound logic, the same must be true, 

Why feed him as freely who labors for two? 

Go on to the finish—we soon will be done, 

Why feed him as often, who represents one? 

We use much more justice with hogs than with men, 
The sow with a litter has separate pen. 

She’s fed with abundance of finest of chop, 

And gets every meal two pails of rich slop. 

Work by the Golden Buie till night brings you rest! 
Live by the Boyal Law, God knoweth the best! 

For why should the boss, with a wife for a pet, 

Beceive so much more than the laborers get; 

Who rear the children, that the town may survive, 

Who keep the State going and the world alive? 
Beincarnation will conditions explain, 

And show the foundation of capital’s reign. 

The profiteer is a reincarnated hog, 

And strike-breaker a reincarnated dog! 

“The birds without barns or storehouses are fed,” 

From them let us learn how to gather our bread. 

By scratching and picking the trick is taken, 

The Lord owns it all—the trusts are mistaken. 


68 


Who ever in barnyard, in field or in tree, 

Saw one small feathered biped scratching for three; 
Except loving mother that cares for her brood, 

While aiding the helpless in amiable mood? 

’Tis true we have seen the old rooster, that’s tough, 
Act very much like a big feast’s not enough; 

For, scratching a fine, large, fat worm from the ground, 
With much eclat calls all the pullets around— 

The plenteous sweet meats with himself to share, 
Though barnyards be sterile and fat worms be rare; 
With cock-a-doodle-doo! and hip, hip, hurrah! 

He swallows it down to stuff fuller his craw. 


THE HONEY-BEE. 

We now will consider the small, busy bee, 

It ranks as best pattern of true industry. 

In science of justice and virile fair play, 

The bee offers odds to man any bright day. 

It adds its small mite to community’s store, 

The weak get enough and the strong take no more. 
There’s only one query—how much did you shirk, 
Not what did you earn; but how hard did you work? 
How can you expect that the bee, flying wide, 

Will gain as much sweets as the one alongside 
The hive which endeavors ambrosia to gain, 

From each tiny flower the nectar obtain; 

Or he that’s a weakling and wanting in brain, 

And has to be coaxed to come out of the rain, 

To do the same work, show as much sweets and wax, 
As past masters whose brain no gray matter lacks ? 
All teachers of true economics will claim, 

Within narrow limits, their needs are the same. 

All beehives have drones, the workers to cozen; 

But working bees throw them out by the dozen. 

On practical questions—believe it who can— 

They show better judgment than is seen in man. 
John Smith prays the State to grant him a charter, 
A railroad to build or in goods to barter. 

In this his petition, he’s pleased to relate 
His chief object is to favor the State, 

For sake of economy tittles to guard, 

Despatch, safety, comfort to be the reward. 


69 




Despite the provisos laid down in the prayer, 

He makes highest charges the traffic will bear. 

Will take none of your slack—not any back talk; 

Not having a ticket, of course you can walk. 
Considering the goods, the price is too high, 

In neighboring stores you may find a supply. 

But be not confounded, for such is the game; 

The goods are not better—the price is the same. 

We ask a few questions—what these facts denote— 
They, from the trade journals, right readily quote. 

We seek these price-fixers, this answer we meet— 
Their pointers came from Chicago and Wall Street. 
We always had read when our freedom was won, 

The government was seated in Washington. 

The President and Congress are seated there, 

And this is all that can be said on the square. 

Consider that John Smith’s objective is just 
The same old project to pile up the gold dust, 

That dazzles the eyes, and will cause one to see 
As touching this beehive, he is the king bee! 

The latest of secrets, so oftentimes heard— 

It never was whispered by any bright bird, 

Profusions of wealthy advantage bestow 
And cause the oiled wffieels of progression to go. 

Were all the millionaires to vanish from view, 

The wage earner would have but little to do. 

Where mountains are highest the live engineer 
Perceives the locomotive’s task most severe. 

If things were on the dead level it should seem, 

The engine would use up a great deal less steam. 

The weak get the wax, the strong take the honey, 

The poor get the work, the rich take the money! 
Aboard the treadmills proletarians grind, 

The slacker sits idle—elect of mankind. 

To put all the shirkers at work on the mill 
Will give added force going up and down hill. 
Perchance Bolshevism sounds like brimstone of hell; 
Oh, absolute justice will do just as well. 

If Biblical language, you rather would use, 

Then Christian stewardship’s the title to choose, 

Not shadows but substance, should sympathy greet; 
The rose, if named buzzard, would smell just as sweet. 


70 


THE TRUSTS . 


Why do not the wizards of finance and trade 
Improve on the plan that the Lord himself made? 
Get up a huge combine to bottle the air! 

Pre-empting the ground floor, you’ll be billionaire! 
Or build a great dam—store up water that falls 
And sell it on options, puts, futures and calls? 

Get up a big trust to impound the sunlight! 

If you have no money two H’s are bright. 

A bow of promise, an arch planted on high— 

God placed his most beautiful gem in the sky. 

Will not a trust take it, get rich quick impound? 

A huge pot of gold at its base might be found. 
Concepts are big but execution bigger—- 
Pew tricks are too hard for a thimble rigger! 
Besides, don’t you know that science is youthful 
And politicians not venal, but truthful! 

God owns, says the Bible, the silver, the gold, 

The cattle, the mountains, the valleys, the wold, 

But J. P. M. locks up the finest gold dust, 

J. D. R. is running the Standard Oil Trust. 

Armour, Morris and Swift get most of the meat, 

And Joseph of Egypt cornered all the wheat. 

The Guggenheims see that all the best copper 
Finds safe anchorage in their little hopper. 

E. H. G. most of the iron ore seizes, 

W. H. O. much of the H 2 0 freezes. 

A. W. M. is striving, with might and with main, 

A strangle hold on aluminum to gain. 

The Meat Trust corraled almost every steer, 
Milwaukee’s fame rested on Schlitz lager beer. 

If for your kodak you should need a new film, 

Call on Eastman first—you may get one from him! 
The Salt Trust has all the salt’s choicest savor, 

A. F of L. would organize all the labor. 

A. A. C. C. controls the fertilizer; 

The A. A. C. is a great advertiser. 

The Biscuit Trust charges five cents for a bun; 

And anthracite is eighteen dollars a ton. 

Drawbaugh (and not Bell) made the first telephone 
And Volstead made U. S. as dry as a bone. 

J. P. M. never made a small speck of gold, 

J. D. R., not one drop of oil that he sold. 


71 




The Meat Trust no hair of a steer ever made, 

Or gave a good bargain in barter and trade. 

Armour, Morris and Swift still arouse our fears, 

This Joseph of Egypt has been dead some years. 

Since lager was voted out by the nation, 

Milwaukee’s fame had a rotten foundation. 
Guggenheims none of this copper created— 

The slag from the metal they separated. 

The Steel Trust in sand molds, the sow and pigs seat; 
The rest is only the appliance of heat. 

And whence came the heat? The scientists maintain 
The Sun is the reservoir, source and the main. 

By use of ammonia the A. I. C. 

Can change Adam’s ale to ice in a jiffy. 

What is the cold’s source? Why scientists repeat 
Refrigeration is abstraction of heat. 

How much this explains let these scientists state, 

This elucidation is right up to date! 

The taxpayer is he who toils on the square, 

By his honest right arm pays his own carfare. 

Who uses no pass when he journeys abroad, 

Or travels the path which he often has trod. 

Who pays for his lodging, his hoarding bill, too, 

The rent of his domicile—oft it is due. 

The grocer, the doctor, for water and light, 

Eor gas, wood, coal-oil and Penn’s anthracite. 

The Gospel should get a most generous share 
And be a partaker of fortune and prayer. 

In terse words, concluding, we briefly will say: 

Who earning his hoard and keep, pays his own way. 

The tax bill is always a pretty round sum; 

It takes lubrication to make the wheels hum. 

The owners are oft hut hot-air ejectors, 

And only the assistant tax collectors. 

You don’t like the service—send message by mail— 
Then walk at your leisure—ride on a fence rail. 

You cannot read in the dark—buy some thrift lights— 
They save you much money these long winter nights. 
They sell them at cost and use little gas— 

They win from Sapphira and Ananias! 

If you don’t like the water which they supply, 

Buy Appollinaris—those springs are not dry. 

The capital system’s top heavy, ’tis plain, 

The poor do the hard work—the rich take the gain. 


72 


With too many rivers and not enough rills— 

With little of level and too many hills. 

The mountains are high, the depressions are deep, 

The level's a morass, the ascents are steep. 

The passes are guarded with many gun nests, 

Obsequious to capitalists' behests. 

No counting for taste, as the old woman said, 

Who kissed"the old cow. To extort from the dead 
Is less to your shame than the living to rob, 

To strut at your leisure and play the nabob. 

He buys a fair maiden, who soon growing stale, 

He buys yet . another more buxom and hale. 

What’s done with the old one, what crop does she reap i 
She goes to the honey a rd or to the scrap heap! 

This new costly limousine, though highly geared, 

Will soon be too sluggish for this old Bluebeard. 

Select any machine, whatever the make— 

The stronger the car, more powerful the brake. 

But, whether rich or poor, be they clad or bare, 
Examples of pure self-sacrifice are rare 
One-tenth is the Lord's, all the tithers declare; 

The other nine-tenths must be Caesar s just share. 
Recall the fate of “The Interchurch Movement, 

It rooted and flourished wherever it went. 

A fair committee made that famous report, 

That gave to the “Steel Strike" impartial support; 

When bang! went the “Movement" far up into space, 
And of it we find neither pieces nor trace. 

The report caused multi-millionaires to gnar, 

And hold from this good cause the sinews of war. 

If money can baffle the Lord's work, ah, then, 

It gives too much power to self-centered men. # 
Millionaires drink the cream—the poor the skimmed 

The poor wear shoddy—the rich, linen and silk. 

Dives lets fall crumbs from his table as boons, 

Humane dogs will lick the obscure beggar s wounds. 
Though viewed through charity's overflowing tears, 

Most wealthy are grabbers and rank profiteers. 

They wish to reduce the cost of construction, 

We ask the percentage of wage reduction. 

Adherence to honor compels us to state 
The man with least wages is greatest m rate. 

This shows up the whole case without the least doubt 
The weakest of men are the easiest knocked out. 

73 


Don’t feel so elated because you’re astute— 

The black cloud of pressure may cause you to root. 
Surveyors who study to lay out a road, 

Proceed by the latest scientific mode. 

You never saw one to take from the level, 

The hill, already steep, still more to bevel! 

Of course not, he removes from the hill always, 

The bottoms to fill up, the levels to raise. 

Apply the same spirit to barter and trade, 

If planning to better the uneven grade. 

God uses this plan the soil to construct, 

He breaks down the mountains the vales to induct. 

Por needs of nature this procedure is wise; 

For ridges that raise their tall heads to the skies, 

The process that meets with our approbation, 

Is boring right through the mountain foundation, 

You wish to make inquiry, why not pursue 
The plan used by God, having same end in view. 

Time, patience and toil, we usually find, 

Bring economic justice to all mankind. 

If God, rich in wisdom, evolution teach, 

Why should man in folly revolution preach? 

This is the verdict in which all will agree: 

Man works in time—God in eternity. 

The clouds in fleecy packs, sailed northeast today; 

There is a southwest wind the weather men say. 

Will scientists decipher this conundrum! 

Well, one is towards and other is from. 

Why should Old Boreas blow north, east, south or west? 
Why not stay at his home and take a long rest? 

Should he call at the front or at the back door, 

He’s not at all times a welcomed visitor. 

Something whispered a word to the southwest wind— 

In far, far northeast, a vacuum you will find, 

The barometer sees a low pressure space, 

And you are now found in a congested place. 

The vacuum, by nature, is the most adhorred, 

Just why it is so there is no true accord. 

In what way that southwest congestion arose, 

You must ask the good Lord, for he only knows. 
Whatever the reason, the cause, the wherefore, 

The wind strives an equal poise to restore. 

And joined in one chorus with tides of the sea 
Support the methods of the Bolsheviki. 


74 


You smile in derision, an ark of the sort 
Built by these new Noahs will never reach port. 
Three miracles li^ve chanced in this present age: 
Amendments thirteen, eighteen, woman’s suffrage, 


And it’s just as easy, a dummy may see, 

To put over the fourth as working the three. 

Are you smitten with fright to hear the word bomb, 
That hastened the trust grandee to kingdom come; 
That snuffed out his candle and set his soul free, 
Pronounced in your presence by Bolsheviki! 

The soldier that shows no traces of pity, 

With fire, gas and bombs, beleagures the city, 

Is called brute! At the war’s close this villain should 
Be made to tote water and cut up firewood. 

But let him, at leisure, encircle the. town 
To starve it, in a safe place, set himself down, 

This captain will have honorable mention— 

Be hailed as a hero and get a pension. 

You say, but there was no occasion to die— 

Just hoist a white flag in the face of the sky. 

Well, who willingly uses gas and nitrites, 

That frighten the days and illumine the nights, 

If he may reach the identical station 
By flower-strewn paths of kindly starvation. 

The terrorists use bombs to blow up their man. 

The capitalists use the starvation plan. 

What is the distinction, why are you so dense. 

We solve easy riddles in one brief sentence. 

The same as ’twixt tweedle dum and tweedle dee, 

Or between the devil and the deep sea. 

Like difference between the weft and the warp, 

Or if by chance the axe be dull or be sharp. 

There is much surmise in our mind as to. which 
Is more disgraceful—to live poor or die rich! 

In our system, life is a handicap race, 

The weakest and poorest are m the last place. 
Carrying six children when life’s race is run, 
Contesting with rivals that carry not one; 

The race is oft won, the insiders well know, 

Before the scratch men hear the starting word, 
While ten to one is the accredited score, 

The devil takes the last—the farce is put o er. 

To give (not get) is the secret of living, 

And sacrifice, the true measure of giving. 


go! 


t” 


75 


The wealth we possess is not our own treasure, 

For we are but stewards at the State’s pleasure. 

No legal transfer of real estate is made, 

Unless it be by the State’s agent OK’d. 

Why not weigh benefactions by w T hat remains? 

The miser is condemned for what he retains. 

Who gives millions, and still has millions at call, 
Will give nothing compared with him who gives all. 
The poor widow who cast her mites in the plate, 
Gave more in God’s judgment than any magnate. 


A SQUARE DEAL. 

We’re weighing Bolshevism, that bugaboo; 

It sounds much less frightful to me than to you. 
We hold it a general panacea; 

A forward step, an advancing idea. 

Bolshevism is the rule of majorities, 

Aristocracy, rule of minorities. 

For rights of property has but scant respect; 
Private rights in soil they utterly reject. 

The wealth of the earth—if created by God— 

Is held in common, from center to sod. 

To Jehovah alone their hats they will doff; 

“For the world is Mine, and the fulness thereof.” 
One maxim they teach us: ’Tis a disgrace 
To live in the sweat of another man’s face. 

Each man, in a measure, controls his own work, 

Is not allowed by law his task to shirk. 

He, who shares the profits, holds on with a vim; 
You will surely get the most work from him. 

Of course, all voters will with their friends hob-nob 
And use every means to land the fat job; 

But do not from his acknowledgment contend, 

That the whole concern will come to an end. 

It is the identical process we see 
In the land of the brave and the home of the free. 
Just watch the Democrats electioneering, 
Republicans by hot air profiteering! 

You say the unlettered, that use the shovel, 

Who live in an alley and die in a hovel, 

Do not know enough about business to vote, 

Have only sense enough to push and to tote. 


76 




These same unlettered, you must freely confess, 

Each had a vote for President and Congress. 

To close this palaver, at all elections, 

We detect not a few unwise selections. 

While we love the red—it is so rich and warm— 
Variety of color also has charm. 

We cherish not a wish to see our flag furled; 

It is the most beautiful in the wide world. 

The only desire, to which friendship assents, 

Is, right the injustice the flag represents! 

Is there none? Let New Jerusalem appear! 

Eor we are sure the Millennium is here. 

God’s Word says a rising of dead shall attend 
Gabriel’s trumpet, that announces the end. 

We are not surprised that no Bolshevists appear 
In first great risings of which we ought to hear. 

In burial grounds around, within our purview, 
Capitalists are many—Bolshevists few. 

Capital (this is by W. J. Bryan told), 

Would crucify labor on a cross of gold. 

Why press on Russia’s forehead a crown of dross 
And crucify her on a gold-plated cross ?. 

We’re still on the cross, the Muzhiks testify, 

A million starving babes add their feeble cry. 

A fire round Russia repels ravenous ghouls; 

A girdle of steel her circumference rifles. 

The first kept alive by the Bolsheviki, 

The second in place by capital’s decree. 

The prize money given in Civil War days 
Was sifted through a ladder—a sailor says.. 

What stuck to the rungs was the forecastle’s lot, 

What fell between the rungs the quarterdeck got. 

At close of the “World” war they counted the dead; 
Astonishment is great—Russia is ahead.. 

Inquire, What nation lost the most in this war? 

You answer, What a dunce, France, of course, by far. 
Her towns are destroyed, her edifices marred, 

Her sod bestrewn with bayonet, shell and shard.; 

Her vineyards and her forests torn from the soil, 

Fell war has turned to dust centuries of toil. 

A thousand graveyards reveal the fatal drain, 

The millions of graves guard the hones of the slain. 
You read the epitaphs—passing by perchance, 

The many tombs are not for the sons of France. 


77 


And Quentin Roosevelt sleeps where the lilies bloom; 
The stars of France keep watch o’er his honored tomb. 
Time, patience, perseverance, toil and skill 
Will beautify each ravaged vale and hill; 

But dead peasantry of Moscovitish stock 
Will never bare the breast to the battle’s shock! 

It is in strict accord with God’s plan, you cry, 

The weak must be slaughtered and the lamb must die. 
I’m old and feeble—where shall I get my fare? 

A pension is your portion the strong must bear. 

I do not ask for alms—would no pauper be! 

Man, you’ve earned a rest, be from labor free. 

Sure, it seems to me, this is a forceful plan 
That grants a competence to each toiling man. 

A fierce demonstration ’gainst Russia is made, 
“Bolshevistic robbers” have made a great raid. 

Well, Romanoff Samoderzhetzi, ahem! 

For centuries enslaved and exploited them. 

Where were all these blatherskitic bluffers, then, 

Who vehemently uphold the rights of men? 

They were not often seen—most likely never— 

One slave to release, one shackle to sever. 

But when these Muzhiks clamor for a square deal— 

To gods of battle make a fervent appeal, 

They seize the offices, the cash and the farms, 

The munition factories, the mines and the arms, 

They go, the Rough Riders never faster went; 

You say they violate the Eighth Commandment. 

Can’t you understand, they’ve had another deal! 

Can’t you read plain English?—“Thou shalt not steal!’' 
We now lock our horns—the case is up to you; 

It seems to us—we have scanned it through and 
through, 

The factories, cash and farms are surplus toil, 

The harvest of centuries of sweat and moil. 

And since those Muzhiks gave most of the sweat, 

The property is their right is a safe bet. 

When our Negro slaves out of servitude went, 
Receiving not a “thank you” or a “red cent.” 

When these Muzhiks were detached from the sod, 

Their ony estate was liberty and God. 

What mines contain was by God directly made, 
Belongs to all the people. He himself has said 
That man must live in the sweat of his face, 

Not sweat of his brother or his father’s grace. 

78 


Another text to meditate o’er and o’er, 

To bind on your brow, to forget nevermore, 

St. Paul was the first that maxim to repeat: 

The man who will not work neither shall he eat. 

If you have some men who are working for you, 

Let them do your eating and your drinking, too. 

He, who does his best, although that best be poor, 

Does as well as angels—this you’ve heard before. 

In early sixties we were likely to sink, 

This bitterness of wormwood were called to drink; 
When foes were in number like sands on the shore 
With friends few and helpless dismayed and forlore; 
The vultures of Europe were watching with zest, 

The flesh of our carcass to choose what seemed best; 
The Great Bear of the North reached out his strong 
paws 

And showed to our foes the extent of his jaws. 

The Russians should have no good cause for regret, 
Now is the best time to discharge this just debt. 

The weakest argument, that any one gives, 

Is capital must die if Bolshevism lives. 

The laborer is the employer’s slave, 

No matter if the boss be fair or a knave. 

Advantage for the boss must he his first care, 

To breathe a cherished longing he does not dare, 

Unless that idea be in full accord 

With best interests of his master and lord. 

He who advocates a Bolshevistic plan, 

Is forthwith discharged, as a dangerous man . 

And found, if not curbed, to end peace and quiet; 

To throw a bomb and perhaps start a riot. 

The Bolshevist is the Muzhiks’ defender; 

“The borrower is servant to the lender.” 

Should you wish to know what the Bible contains, 
Would you consult Ingersolls, Voltaires and Paines? 
When on the exegetic sea you embark, 

A trusty commentator is Adam Clarke. 

Many ideas, we adjudge sane and sound, 

May in the writings of Scott Nearing be found. 

If the search of Bolshevism you would begin, 

Inquire for the views of Nikolai Lenine. 

Some ill-informed people think it as healthy 
For poor men to drink rum as for the wealthy. 

Why, you poor boob, it is no question of health; 

But simply and solely a matter of wealth. 

79 


Should rich men have no stock of whiskey and wine, 
They may get for twenty bucks a quart of moonshine. 
Despite our warning and timely advice, 

The poor man would duplicate had he the price; 

But having no reserve to buy him a pall, 

He gets for a dollar some wood alcohol. 

Within a few brief hours his breath he will yield 
And get free transportation to Potter’s Field. 

Do you call this injustice—a shameful deal— 

And cry day and night, “The Volstead Law repeal I” 
Show us the difference in any one thing, 

We’ll own up we are beaten and quit the ring. 

The only exception we have heard of yet, 

Religion is harder for the rich to get. 

Oh! dull man; oh! dumb man ; can’t you comprehend! 
Don’t look through the telescope from the wrong end! 
You claim justice will not work, not long abide; 

But we will not concur until it is tried 
By sympathetic men, who are brave and true, 

Always have a friend to keep tally for you. 

He, who loves his neighbor as himself, will see 
That neighbor has the same chance in life as ho. 

Mr. A, with an income of thousands a day, 

Offers two dollars as the laborer’s pay; 

Although he knows full well that toiler B’s stress 
Equals his own, this is none of his business. 

The toiler is a shiftless, ignorant lob, 

If diligent he can get a better job. 

If God had designed him for a higher sphere, 

Much more gray matter in his brain would appear. 
You give not the least care to a man’s great need, 

He gets what he earns and this is proper meed. 

A’s healthy wife does not put on her own hose, 

Has to keep a maid to arrange all her clothes. 

Does not place her hand one dish to wash or dry, 

Has machine washer the brawn to supply. 

To furnish the meals, she has to keep a cook, 

The household linen, a maid must overlook. 

When she goes abroad has a chauffeur at hand 
And car to transport her if on dry land. 

If over the water, she should have a yacht, 

With crew of half a hundred and safe pilot. 
Adornments must be of diamond and the pearl, 

She would have as husband a duke or an earl. 


80 



Her days and nights are passed away in ease; 

Women of this class do about as they please. 

Should she have one child, it is a dreadful bore, 

She’s ever after careful to have no more. 

To have more children is to her a kill joy; 

Besides will it not her proportions destroy? 

Must have a nurse to assume the baby’s care, 
Governess, for boarding school, the child to prepare. 
She’s out all the night and sleeps all the day, 

A Sunday school teacher trains her child to pray. 

That she’s a birth controller cannot be denied— 

A great advocate of race suicide. 

(Were all the women now alive such as she, 

The beasts would own the earth in a century.) 

Does her own eating, and her own drinking, too; 

And this is all the work that she has to do. 

B’s wife has only two or three pair of hose, 

They are frayed at the heels and thin at the toes. 

As to suits of clothes, makes but little display; 

The best she wears on Sunday and holiday. 

Washes each Monday, has washboard for machine, 
Runs by hand-power, her hand on it is seen. 

On Tuesday has to iron the dried-out clothes, 

Which is tedious work, each housewife knows. 

On Wednesday darns the holes, but one pair of hands 
Will take the whole day to answer all demands. 

On Thursday, cleans the house, sweeps and scrubs 
around; 

On Friday in the wash tub again is found 
To rub out a few pieces—the outfit’s incomplete— 
Will not last the week through and be clean and neat. 
After working all the week and without pay— 

Who would want to take a rest on Saturday! 

Holiday on Saturday sounds good to me; 

Oh, that was only a little pleasantry! 

But Sunday, sir, is a day most surely blest; 

Sunday is a great combine of all the rest. 

You have not mentioned children, wdiat is the score? 
She has six now and will take as many more 
As her Heavenly Father in his wisdom gives, 

She trains them for Heaven, while for them she lives. 
Like each gallant soldier that periled his life, 

A bonus for each child should reward B’s wife. 

She’s up before the Sun and works by candle light, 
She’s busy all the day and far into the night. 

81 


She sings with gladsome heart ere she breaks her fast, 
’Tis a sign she’ll weep before the day is past. 

What is her income? What do you think she’s worth? 
She’s worth a million to any man on earth. 

A’s wife is a parasite, A’s wealth to spend, 

B’s wife is an angel, aid and cheer to lend. 

She’s worth the diamonds, the rubies and pearls, 
Adorning the wives of a billion dukes and earls. 

The diamond is naught but crystallized charcoal, 

B’s wife is a reasoning immortal soul 

Who will still survive when rubies and pearls 

Fade in the wreck of matter and crash of worlds. 

She respects the Royal Law and Golden Rule, 

In a feeble church teaches Sunday school. 

The children crowd around, her bright smiles to share, 
And hoary heads bow lower her gracious words to hear. 
The graces, truth and mercy, her life adorn, 

Like dew her love refreshes each dreary morn. 

Beloved by her husband, by each child carest, 

She blesses others and should by you be blest. 

Since she is so busy there is no time to weep; 

Oh! yes, while her spouse and children are asleep 
What does she treasure, what souvenirs possess? 

A baby’s sock, a ringlet, a golden tress. 

Outraged justice to the Heavenly courts has flown, 

A nation will reap the seed that it has sown. 

A 1STemesis guards her, ere our doom she seal, 

Grant this woman equity and a square deal! 

Don’t wait till they reach Heaven accounts to square, 
We doubt if you’ll find the wife of A is there. 

Don’t call on God above justice to dispense 

Till you’ve raised your hand in Mistress B’s defense. 

God’s rule in Heaven does not require your aid; 

Our kind acts in time on earth will there be weighed. 
Let us strew mercy along life’s dusty way, 

For soon the night of death shall close the light of day. 
Why, A, you are not a man; if this you see 
And raise not your voice and hand B’s wife to free! 
Since strikes and bombs have for you no attraction; 
Suggest to B direct ballot box action. 

The most strenuous use more drastic attacks; 

The I. W. W. would smash the box with the axe. 

Some say, bore from within! some, bore from without! 
(Rivets have heads on both ends sturdy and stout.) 


82 


PART X, 


A POETIC FANCY. 

While reading this book you have possibly seen 
The poor thing is feeble, tame, barren and lean. 

If this is your thought, then mental correction 
Will give it, at least, one certain perfection. 

Perhaps you will say it’s too bad to correct, 

And you are too gracious the whole to reject; 
Acknowledging this, you are in a sad plight— 

The bumps on the log neither give up nor fight. 

Forget misplaced accents and imperfect rhymes, 

No doubt the attire is not up with the times. 

We cannot portray man as William Shakespeare, 

Or use jolly satire like J. Moliere. 

We’re no master of rhythm as Shelley and Poe, 

No writer of romance as Scott and Defoe. 

Who can such bright tales as the great Chaucer pen, 

A doxology that equals Thomas Ken ? 

We cannot like Dante and Stevenson sing, 

Or write pretty ballads like Rudyard Kipling. 

To ape Homer and Virgil do not propose, 

Or imitate E. Waller’s Go, Lovely Rose! 

To Goethe and Lowell we willingly kneel, 

Who does not love Lady Nairne’s Land of the Leal? 

We lack flaming Isaiah’s seraphic fire, 

To Job’s sublimity can never aspire. 

We’re not Deborah, songs triumphant to sing, 

Or compose Psalms like David the Shepherd King. 
Barbara Frietchie, of valorous renown, 

Whittier asserts, took up the flag men hauled down. 
Francis Scott Key saw by the dawn’s early light, 

The Star-Spangled Banner still waving in sight. 
Emerson, Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, 

Here, once farmers fired the shot heard round the world! 
Oliver W. Holmes saved the “Old Ironsides” 

From a lonely grave in the mud and the tides. 


McMaster, In their ragged regimentals, 

But, yielding not, stood the old Continentals. 

Hopkinson wrote Hail Columbia, Happy Land! 

And Thompson, When Britain First at Heaven’s Command 
Edmund H. Yates advises Kissing the Rod, 

Luther says, A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. 

Thomas Gray gave us the greatest Elegy, 

Samuel F. Smith, My Country, ’Tis of Thee! 

Edmund Spenser indited The Fairie Queen, 

A more beautiful fairie never was seen. 

Mrs. Horton affirms Would I Were With Thee! 

Francis Quarles responds, Delight in God Only! 

C. Hankey sings I Love to Tell the Story, 
de Lisle, Ye Sons of France, Awake to Glory! 

Francis Beaumont advises Take Those Lips Away! 

A. H. Clough responds Some Other Day. 

William Tell was immortalized by Schiller, 

And the Sierras by “Joaquin” Miller. 

To Jacques de Sain Pierre we owe The Shipwreck, 

F. Hemans, The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck. 

George P. Morris exclaims Woodman Spare That Tree! 
Cunningham, A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea. 

Black-eyed Susan enraptured Master John Gay, 

And John Dryden wrote St. Cecelia’s Day. 

Nicholas Rowe brings to attention Jane Shore, 

Nathaniel Shepherd, Only the Clothes She Wore. 

Madam Guyon sings, A Little Bird Am I; 

E. W. Chapman, We’ll Never Say, Good Bye. 

John G. Saxe gave us The Rhyme of the Rail, 

Stoddard King directs us on The Long, Long Trail. 

John Clare inquires What I Am Who Cares or Knows? 
Hannah F. Gould rejoices It Snows! It Snows! 

Eugene Field is the author of Little Boy Blue; 
O’Shaughnessy composed If She Only Knew. 

Ulrich von Hutten protests The Die Is Cast, 

G. I. Romanes has arrived Safe Home at Last. 

By Alice Cary, The Latent Life was sought, 


84 


Phebe Cary wrote One Sweetly, Solemn Thought! 

John Wesley declares We Lift Our Hearts to Thee! 

T. T. Lynch prays Gracious Spirit, Dwell in Me! 

Grant says While Gathering Clouds Around I View; 

C. D. Martin vows God Will Take Care of You. 

Charles Wesley directs Blow Ye the Trumpet Blow! 
Hosmer says I Little See, I Little Know. 

Robinson prays Holy Father, Cheer Our Way! 

Auber joins With Joy We Hail the Sacred Day. 

Kirke White wrote When Marshaled on the Rightly Plain, 
Damascus’ John, Come, Ye Faithful, Raise the Strain! 
Medley sings Awake! My Soul! to Joyful Lays, 

T. Oliver wrote The God of Abram Praise. 

Matheson, Oh! Love That Will Rot Let Me Go, 

Adolphus, Fear Rot! Oh, Little Flock, the Foe! 

Blandly shouts He Will Give Me Grace and Glory! 
James Gray, Oh! Listen to Our Wondrous Story! 

Bonar says Go, Labor On, Spend and Be Spent! 

Lanier, Into the Woods My Master Went. 

Elliott, Just As I Am Without One Plea, 

Havergal, I Could Rot Do Without Thee. 

“Unknown” wrote Oh! Mother Dear Jerusalem! 

Phillips Brooks, Oh! Little Town of Bethlehem! 

Alford claims My Bark Is Wafted to the Strand, 

S. Stennett, On Jordan’s Stormy Banks I Stand. 

E. S. Ufford directs Throw Out the Life Line! 

Fawcett says How Precious Is the Book Divine. 

J. Mohr created Silent Right! Holy Right! 

Rodigast, Whatever God Ordains Is Right. 

Hunter, My Heavenly Home Is Bright and Fair, 

M. A. Kidder asks Is My Rame Written There? 

W. Tappen, There Is an Hour of Peaceful Rest, 

Rose Teller Cook assures us It Is More Blest. 

Muhlenberg exclaims I Would Rot Live Alway; 

Hart sighs Oh! For a Glance of Heavenly Day. 

A. B. Hyde says Sinner, Hark! a Voice Within! 

Straphan states Delightful Task Young Souls to Win! 


85 


Ford insists How Vain Is All Beneath the Skies. 
Seymour exclaims Jesus Immortal, Arise! 

Bacon appeals, O, God! Beneath Thy Guiding Hand; 

T. Brooke would have God Bless Our Native Land! 
Orwig sings O, God of Peace, Thee We Implore! 

J. Grigg says Behold a Stranger at the Door! 

J. Stewart cries Holy Spirit, Calm My Mind! 

S. Wesley, Behold the Saviour of Mankind! 

Faber wrote Faith of Our Fathers Living Still, 

And Heber, By Cool Siloam’s Shady Bill. 

J. Conder gave Day by Day the Manna Fell. 

Spalford, It Is Well With My Soul, It Is Well! 

F. Pott heard Angel Voices Ever Singing; 

Meredith says The Bells of Hope Are Kinging. 

Barton cries We Journey Through a Vale of Tears, 
Gerhardt advises Give to the Winds Thy Fears. 

J. von Eichendorff recommends Morning Prayer, 

J. G. Holland claims There’s a Song in the Air. 
Toplady wrote Bock of Ages Cleft for Me! 

And S. F. Adams, Nearer, My God, to Thee. 

M. Barber prays Prince of Peace, Control My Will! 
John Hay, Defend Us, Lord, From Every Ill! 
Waterbury, Soldiers of the Cross, Arise! 

T. Scott, Hasten Sinner to Be Wise! 

Walter Scott, The Day of Wrath, That Dreadful Day! 
M. Babcock, Be Strong! We Are Not Here to Play. 

J. Bowring wrote Watchman! Tell Us of the Night! 

J. Monsell, Fight the Good Fight With All Thy Might! 
Phoebe Brown, I Love to Steal Awhile Away, 

Andrew Bead pleads Turn My Darkness Into Day. 
Kendal wrote The Song That Once I Dreamed About, 
Will Carleton laments Betsey and I Are Out. 

John A. Lleraud delights in The Future Home, 

John Keats suggests Ever Let Fancy Boam ! 

Marlowe pleads Come, Live With Me and Be My Love! 
Kossetti, She Listened Like a Cushat Dove. 

W. Barnes wrote As I Left the Koad in May; 


86 


Cowper, I Am Monarch of All I Survey. 

E. Caswell sees When Morning Gilds the Skies; 

Anna M. Proctor commands Lift Up Thine Eyes! 
Coleridge says She Is Not Fair to Outward View, 

William J. Linton vows but She’s Real and True. 

Heine says I Called the Devil and He Came, 

Shakespeare asserts Youth Is Nimble, Age Is Lame. 
James Hogg is lonesome When Maggie Gangs Away, 

John Sterling says ’twas On a Beautiful Day. 

William Collins rehearses Hoav Sleep the Brave, 

Epes Sargent, A Life on the Ocean Wave. 

Stephen Foster composed Old Dog Tray, 

M. Oliphant, He That Will Not When He May. 

George Herbert, Sweet Day! So Cool, So Calm, So Bright. 
Rose Thorpe declares Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight! 
George Root wrote Just Before the Battle, Mother, 
Monahan, Tell Me of the Battle, Brother! 

George Cooper sang Beautiful Isle of the Sea 
And Mary Lee Demarest, My Ain Countrie. 

Alexander Smith described A Summer Day, 

Paul Barnes sang with spirit Good Bye, Dolly Gray! 
John Loker stands Tapping on the Garden Gate. 

Alfred Tennyson exclaims Too Late, Too Late! 

Thompson sang Far and Near the Fields Are Teeming, 
Linley, Ever of Thee I’m Fondly Dreaming. 

Thomas Campbell composed Lord Ullin’s Daughter, 

And Harry Linn, You’ll Never Miss the Water. 

Ann Lindsay indited Auld Robin Gray, 

Edward Young advises Be Wise Today! 

Charles H. Webb gave us The Lay of Dan’l Drew, 

H. Clifton suggests Paddle Your Own Canoe. 

Florence Percy sighs Rock Me to Sleep, 

Samuel K. Cowan wrote Out on the Deep. 

B. S. Barclay composed Come, Oh, Come With Me! 

L. Alamanni suggests, To Italy! 

John Suckling wants to know Why so Pale and Wan? 
Harry Yaughan, with pathos, states They Are All Gone! 


87 


Kipling composed On the Road to Mandalay, 

Calverly wrote Lines for St. Valentine’s Day. 

Jane Taylor describes The Philosopher’s Scales, 

And Chaucer composed The Canterbury Tales. 

James Montgomery speaks of The Common Lot, 

J. C. T. Schiller counsels Haste Not, Rest Hot! 
Jonson warns Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes, 
And Gilbert concurs Perhaps It Would Be Wise, 
George D. Prentice wrote for us The Plight of Years, 
Nickolaus Miller, The Paradise of Tears. 

R. Barnfield sang As It Pell Upon a Day, 

T. Heywood recommends Pack Clouds Away. 
Alexander Pope, The Universal Prayer, 

E. G. Taylor prays Meet Me There,, Meet Me There! 
E. Landon sings The Setting of the Polar Star, 
Samuel Lover composed The Lowbacked Car. 

Prank Stanton tells me in rhyme What Bothers Him, 
James Whitcomb Riley says The Ole Man and Jim. 
John R. Wreford, Lord, Por All Mankind We Pray! 
H. J. Vandyke, God, Defend America! 

George Henry Calvert praises Washington, 

H. W. Longfellow gave us The Day Is Done. 

Charles Jefferys, You Speak of Sunny Skies to Me, 
Charles Mackay praises The Miller of the Dee. 

John Boyle O’Reilly composed My Native Land, 
James R. Randall, Maryland, My Maryland! 

Byron says She Walks in Beauty Like the Night, 
Wardsworth states She Was a Phantom of Delight. 
Goldsmith wrote an Elegy on Madame Blaise, 

Thomas Moore the ode, The Light of Other Days. 
Charles Kingsley travels Across the Sands o’ Dee, 
Henry Prancis Lyte implores Abide With Me. 
Huntington, Oh! Think of a Home Over There! 
William M. Thackeray, The Cane-bottomed Chair. 

The Old-arm Chair was penned by Eliza Cook, 

Lydia M. Child addresses My Mother’s Book. 
Kosengarten gives The Amen of the Stones, 


88 



Thomas Noel, with sarcasm, Rattle His Bones! 

Annie H. Cudlipp, He Cometh Not, She Said, 

Isaac McLellan composed New England’s Dead. 

Eliza Ward speaks of The Gates Ajar, 

Thomas Page tells what happened Befo’ de War. 

T. Macaulay sings The Lays of Ancient Rome; 

John Howard Payne wishes for Home, Sweet Home! 
Louisa M. Alcott calls for Jack and Jill, 

M. B. Wallace wants The Sword of Bunker Hill. 
Newton states In Evil Long I Took Delight; 

J. H. Newman supplicates Lead, Kindly Light! 

W. W. Walford praises the Sweet Hour of Prayer, 
Charles M. Filmore prays Tell Mother I’ll Be There! 
E. Rexford sang Silver Threads Among the Gold, 
Mistress Luke, The Sweetest Story Ever Told. 

Philip P. Cook is in love with Florence Vane, 

T. B. Aldrich, Before and After the Rain. 

Arndt composed What Is the German’s Fatherland? 
Lewis Morris gave to us Dear Little Hand. 

Joseph Addison recommends Divine Care, 

Eastman, The Farmer Sat in His Easy Chair. 

J. Q. Adams related The Wants of Man, 

A. H. Everett, A Young American. 

Walter Raleigh sang Go, Soul, the Body’s Guest, 

J. Racine, Dispensing Light at His Behest. 

Boccage w r rote an ode on The Wolf and the Ewe, 

J. F. C. Delavigne describes Waterloo. 

W. Hamilton says Busk Ye, My Bonnie Bride, 

E. Hamilton speaks well of My Ain Fireside. 

H. Drachmann asserts Father Is Out at Sea, 

William Knox wrote Lincoln’s choice, Mortality. 

R. B. Sheridan commands Let the Toast Pass, 

Samuel Butler satirizes Hudibras. 

Bret Harte first introduced The Heathen Chinee, 

Walt Whitman, an ode to Immortality. 

Julia Pardoe describes The Beacon Light, 

Halpine avers O’Ryan Was a Man of Might. 


89 


William P. Palmer speaks of The Smack in School, 
Prior says Every Poet Is a Fool. 

E. Lazarus wrote The Banner of the Jew, 

Hallevi gave The Hope of the Hebrew. 

Mary Howitt asks And Is the Swallow Gone ? 

Charles James Lever composed The Widow Malone. 
Robert Southey created The Magic Thread, 

T. O’Hara wrote The Bivouac of the Dead. 

John Finley composed The Bachelor’s Hall, 

Nora Perry speaks at length After the Ball. 

Henry Clay Work wrote The Year of Jubilee, 

B. Taylor, From the Desert I Come to Thee. 

Charles Lamb sighs When Maidens, Such as Laura, Die, 
James Shirley responded with The Lullaby. 

A. Y. Rydberg protests We Shall Meet Again, 

W. Praed says I Met Him at Three Score and Ten. 
Richard Crashaw composed The Two Similes, 
Bonaventura, Adestes Fideles. 

W. H. Furness speaks of The Eternal Light, 

Pratt wrote Over a Little Bed at Night. 

A. C. Swinburne recommends Kissing Her Hair, 

John Still composed Back and Side, Go Bare, Go Bare, 
de Montyon introduces the Devil’s Wife, 

James G. Clarke, The Evergreen Mountains of Life. 
Robert Burns calls to mind Auld Lang Syne, 

E. C. Clephane gave us The Ninety and Nine. 

Sisters Goodale indited A Storm at Night, 

A. D. T. Whitney wrote Sunlight and Starlight. 
Blackstone gave A Lawyer’s Farewell to His Muse, 

Lucy Larcom composed Hannah Binding Shoes. 

T. Holcroft tells the story of Gaffer Gray; 

Read replies My Soul Today Is Far Away! 

Edmund C. Stedman tells us What the Wind Brings, 

W. H. Howells, The Song the Oriole Sings. 

Richard Gall recited The Braes of Drumlee, 

W. E. Aytoun, The Burial March of Dundee. 

Gilder, Oh! Sweet Wild Roses That Bud and Blow, 


90 


Thomas Ken, Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow 
Pierre de Ronsard hails The Return of Spring, 

William G. Simms addresses The Grapevine Swing. 

Henry Fielding indicates The Maiden’s Choice, 

P. Owens says Give the Winds a Mighty Voice! 

H. R. Palmer cries Yield Not to Temptation, 

George Keith assures us How Firm a Foundation. 
Gourdon Robins has faith in The Better Land, 

Cornelius trusts Sometime We’ll Understand. 

S. M. J. Henry declares My Father Knows, 

Stowell, From Every Stormy Wind That Blows. 

Shelley says The Sun Is Warm, the Sky Is Clear, 

E. T. Cassel states I Am a Stranger Here. 

Edmund C. Hancock composed St. Nicholas, 

C. C. Moore, It Was the Night Before Christmas. 

E. E. Hewitt cries, with vigor, Ship Ahoy! 

Sydney T. Dobell beseeches How’s My Boy? 

G. W. Doane wrote Softly, Now, The Light of Day, 
Jeremy Taylor implores Lord, Come Away! 

Lydia Sigourney says Go to Thy Rest, 

Flora Kirkland suggests Do Your Very Best. 

Amelia Opie, The Orphan Boy’s Tale, 

Babrius, The Swallow and the Nightingale. 

Hamlin Garland told us of The Winter Brook, 

Robert Browning gave us The Ring and the Book. 

S. C. Kirk insists He Keepeth His Promise, 

E. Dyer, My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is. 

Celia" Baxter sang of The Mussel Shell, 

John Trumbull introduces A Time-worn Belle. 

Annie Grant has pity for The Highland Poor, 

Allan Ramsay will see Lochaher No More. 

B. F. Wilson interviews The Old Sergeant, 

Richard C. Tench advises us Be Patient! 

A. A. Hopkins composed for us The Last Chime, 

A. C. Coxe says To Be Living Is Sublime. 

Grant Colfax Tullar would grow Closer to Thee; 

John H. Yates proclaims Faith Is the Victory. 


91 


Frederick Mistral describes The Fisher Folk, 

H. T. Chooley delights in The Brave Old Oak. 

James Merrick brings to view The Chameleon, 

Francis Mahoney rings The Bells of Shandon. 

Harriet Monroe sang The Land of the Free, 

Julia Ward Howe says it is Our Country. 

W. Spencer, The Spearmen Heard the Bugle Sound, 

Hester Thrace, The Tree With Deepest Root Is Found. 
Theophile Gautier chose The Close of Day, 

And Conrad Kirchberg The Merry Month of May. 
Caroline Gilman lives on the Plantation, 

Edward Everett wrote The Boy’s Oration. 

Edgar Allan Poe composed Annabel Lee, 

David M. Moir eulogized Casa Wappy. 

Robert Bloomfield gave The Squire’s May-dav Banquet, 

H. A. Dobson supposes More Poets Yet. 

Elizabeth O. Smith gets Strength From the Hills, 

Robert Herrick wrote an ode To Daffodils. 

Thomas Carew speaks of Red and White Roses, 

Alexander, The Burial of Moses. 

Thomas Hood gave us An Ideal Honeymoon, 

H. E. Spafford, Happy Day of Happy June! 

Richard M. Milnes depictures The Worth of Hours, 
William C. Bryant, The Death of Flowers. 

John Byron gave us a Truly Loyal Toast, 

Richard Glover shows us Admiral Hosier’s Ghost. 

J. Mosen tells the Legend of The Cross Bill, 

Robert Buchanan declares I See Thee, Still! 

John G. Lockhart wrote The Broadswords of Scotland, 
Sebastian Brandt, To a Suspicious Husband. 

Chapman claims They Say the Years Have Swallow’s 
Wings, 

Paul L. Dunbar suggests When Malindy Sings. 

Earl of Dorset, All Ye Ladies How at Land, 
Bulwer-Lytton, Bridals in Spirit Land. 

L. Ponce de Leon carols Hight Serene, 

Mistress Crawford composed Kathleen Mavourneen. 


92 


Jean Ingelow completes The Long White Seam, 
William Dimond composed The Sailor Boy’s Dream. 
J. du Bellay describes The Ruins of Rome, 

William Shenstone represents The Shepherd’s Home. 
D. Jerrold wrote Yonder Is a Little Drum, 

John Luther Long assures us Some Day He’ll Come. 
Karl Korner offers Prayer During the Fight, 

Robert Lowry prays Where Is My Boy Tonight? 
Mary Lamb is in suspense What Name to Chose, 
Edna Proctor vows Heaven I Cannot Lose. 

Ellen L. Moulton traces My Mother’s Face, 

Sallie Marston proclaims Victory Through Grace. 

W. Watson from England to America, 

Banville avers Poverty’s A Crime Today. 

W. L. Garrison aids Benjamin Lundy, 

R. Ferguson paints An Edinburg Sunday. 

F. Cozzens sighs Oh! A Country Home for Me. 

S. Y. Harmer suggests Rest for the Weary. 

Julian Fane is affectionate Ad Matrem, 

James Leigh Hunt introduced Abou Ben Adhem. 
Khayyam, with rapture, Oh! Morn of My Delight, 
W. E. Hickson petitions God Speed the Right! 
Kelly Talbot protests I’ll Be a Sunbeam! 

Bernard Barton says Hoble the Mountain Stream! 

J. Will Callahan gave the popular Smiles, 

Edward W. Gosse carols The Golden Isles. 

Fitz Greene Halleck wrote to A Poet’s Daughter, 
Everhardt, From the Land of the Sky Blue Water. 
W. Hunter, The Great Physician Kow Is Hear, 
Charles Sprague emphasizes that We Are All Here. 
W. C. Martin, Though the Angry Surges Roll, 
Ellen H. Gates points to The Home of the Soul. 

E. M. Hall exclaims I Hear the Savior Say, 

J. H. Sammis advises Trust and Obey. 

J. A. Schleffer sings I Thank Thee, Uncrowned Sun 
Carney prays Think Gently of the Erring One! 
Gibbons speaks When Jesus Dwelt in Mortal Clay! 


93 


Stephen G. Bulfinch, Hail to the Sabbath Day! 

G. Thrings says Fierce Raged the Tempest O’er the Deep 

B. Beddome suggests Did Christ O’er Sinners Weep? 

P. P. Bliss is Standing By a Purpose True, 

W. M. Lightball, Some One Is Looking for You. 
Motherwell asks What Is Glory, What Is Fame? 

E. Parronet cries All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name! 
James G. Percival describes Seneca Lake, 

C. N. Catton says No Ills But What We Make. 

Mary E. Dodge speaks of The Two Mysteries, 

Philip Sidney contends True Beauty Virtue Is. 

C. J. Rossetti sings the Milking Maid, 

Edward C. Pinkney gave us A Serenade. 

R. Dodsley speaks One Kind Word Before We Part, 
Daniel Webster, The Memory of the Heart! 

S. F. Bennett composed The Sweet Bye and Bye, 

Mistress L. Shorey exclaims My Lord and I. 

L. E. Akerman gathers Nothing But Leaves. 

Shaw sings with gladness Bringing in the Sheaves. 

W. S. Smith gives the command Send Out the Light! 

Eliza Reed suggested Why Not Tonight? 

A. Warner wrote Jesus Loves Me, This I Know, 

James Nicholson longs to be Whiter than Snow. 

K. Spitta writes Ah! This Heart Is Void and Chill, 
Mistress M. A. Baker responds Peace, Be Still! 

Conway sighs I Know Not When the Day Shall Be, 
Dingelstedt pleads Tell Me, Floweret, Tell Me! 

G. Griffin views Sweet Adare, Oh! Lovely Vale, 

William Allingham sings To the Nightingale. 

R. Tannahill chirps Let Us Go, Lassie, Go, 

Edna R. Warrell asks Are You a Hero? 

Vincenzo Monti interprets The Soul’s Doom, 

E. W. Wilcox says There Are Ghosts in the Room. 
Watkins affirms The Old, Old Story Is True, 

Webster, The Victory May Depend on You. 

W. Winter sighs Oh! To Think the Sun Can Shine! 
Davidson, Oh! That the Eagle’s Wings Were Mine! 


94 


Charles Sedley anticipates The Growth of Love, 

Willis, Stoop to My Window, Beautiful Dove! 

Charles Wolfe says, with pathos, Not a Drum Was Heard, 
R. H. Dana tells of The Little Beach Bird. 

Freeman Clarke views with delight White Capped Waves; 
Pierpont shouts Stand! The Ground’s Your Own, My 
Braves! 

Theodore Parker describes The Common Good, 

H. H. Bovesen gave us Hilda’s Little Hood. 

Edmund H. Sears adores The Angel Song, 

Charles Reade pleads Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
Nicolai, O, Morning Star, Most Bright, Most Fair! 

J. Scriven says Take It to the Lord in Prayer! 

Bathurst asks Why Should Our Tears in Sorrow Flow? 
Mistress Yokes, Behold! the Heathen Waits to Know! 
Daniel Marsh states Here Am I, Send Me, Send Me! 

Mary Brown, I’ll Be What You Want Me to Be! 
Zinzendorf, Jesus, Thy Blood and Righteousness! 

Edward Mote, My Hope Is Built on Nothing Less. 

Samuel Wolcott wrote Christ for the World We Sing, 
Hattie Buell, I Am the Child of a King. 

Tersteegen, God Calling Yet, Shall I Not Hear? 

And Bethune, When Time Seems Short and Death Is 
Near! 

Edmund Jones, Come, Humble Sinner, in Whose Breast! 
And Stockton, Come, Every Soul, By Sin Opprest! 

Ray Palmer composed My Faith Looks Up to Thee, 

And Wordsworth, Father of All from Land to Sea. 
Williams wrote While Thee I Seek Protecting Power, 

And Annie S. Hawks, I Need Thee Every Hour! 

F. J. Crosby, Savior, More Than Life to Me! 

Gladden pleads Oh! Master, Let Me Walk With Thee! 

T. Dwight says While Life Prolongs Its Precious Light, 
Joseph Swain, How Sweet, How Heavenly Is The Sight. 
H. Ware shouts Lift Up Your Glad Voices in Triumph on 
High! 

Malan assures us It Is Not Death to Die. 


Edwin Markham composed The Man and the Hoe, 

Milton says The Lord Will Come and Not Be Slow. 

N. Tate sings While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by 
Night, 

E. W. Shurtleff shouts Lead On, O, God of Might! 

H. Zick gave us Love, So Beautiful and True! 

D. T. Shaw, Three Cheers for the Red, White and Blue! 

E. Browning, He Giveth His Beloved Sleep, 

Willard lies Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep. 

Wagner wrote Oh! Thou Sublime Sweet Evening Star! 

I. Ogden, Brighten the Corner Where You Are! 
“Somebody” said Douglas! Tender and True, 

John R. Clements asks Was That Somebody You? 

Philip Doddridge exclaims Hark! Hark! the Glad Sound; 
Helen H. Jackson replies Outward Bound. 

Lathbury states Day Is Dying in the West, 

Isaac Watts responds Welcome, Sweet Day of Rest! 

A. A. Procter indited The Great Amen! 

Rankin, God Be With You Till We Meet Again. 

Since with none of these may we hope to aspire, 

You think to oblivion we should retire. 

No trace of discouragement have we felt, 

But Washington and Lincoln equal Roosevelt. 



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